


we kill the flame

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, The non-con happens off screen and is NOT EXPLICIT NOR GRAPHIC, This is as AU as they come, and a few battles, darkness and humor and fluffy angst and hope, it’s just implied, it’s not even mentioned out loud, with a massive happy end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-10-13 06:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: Earth, 2123.A city striving to escape a bleak future. A crime lord who wants to bring it to its knees.An agent and a fugitive, thrown together by chance on a mission to free the city - and save themselves.There’s no way that could possibly go wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love a good dystopia. And i love cyberpunk. And when this idea popped into my head, i couldn't NOT try to write it.  
(In case you're queasy about the non-con tag: i repeat, there is NOTHING graphic, or explicit, or on-screen. It's not even mentioned out loud. But it is implied.)
> 
> Fic title shamelessly stolen from Leonard Cohen.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


_if you are the dealer, I'm out of the game_  
_if you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame_  
_if thine is the glory, then mine must be the shame_  
_you want it darker - we kill the flame_

_\- Leonard Cohen -_

  
  
  
  


  
  


He gets his first op practically as a side note. Regina asks him to stay behind after the morning briefing and casually hands him a digital sheet.

  
  


“I want you to take point on this one,” she says, her face expressionless. That, of course, is training. It’s CO 101.  
“It’s a strict GO-NO/GO, deeper than we’ve ever been before, and if your recon is successful, we’re going in heavy.”

“Target?”

“Unconfirmed. But the intel says Gold himself might be down there.”

“Down where?” He raises an eyebrow. “What Level?”

“L3.”

“You’re joking.”

Regina’s face does not move one muscle. “I never joke.” It’s true. She doesn’t.

“Level _three_?”

“Level three.”

  
  


He takes a deep breath. “”How?”

“We got a new NO/GO last night.” She points to his digisheet. “And it’s all in there, _Captain_, if you’d care to scroll down.”

“No way. You’ve shafted me to the sidelines for a year and now you want me to take point on what might be the most important op recon we’ve ever run?” He shakes his head. “It’s a suicide mission.”

The left corner of Regina’s perfectly painted lips quirks in supreme condescension. “Are you refusing a direct order?”

“Just tell me what you have on the NO/GO.”

“Stay of execution.”

“That’s it?” He very nearly rolls his eyes at his commanding officer. “No family? No friends? No _pets_? Nothing to leverage?”

“Nothing, captain. No collateral.”

  
  


He laughs out loud. “You want me to crash a location on a Level nobody’s been to before and catch a fucking _ghost_ with a NO/GO whose only incentive is saving his own life?”

Regina nods with finality. “Yes, I do.” Her eyes are pure ice. “I do, because this is what we have. A chance. And I would thank you not to fuck it up.” She nods at the door. “Your NO/GO’s a female, by the way. She’s down in Holding. Her barcode is already linked to your chip.”

“Wonderful.”

“You leave at 2300.”

This time he sputters. Actually sputters. “That’s a little over 12 hours from now!”

Regina nods. “I suggest you use the time to prep.” And with that she leaves him behind in the briefing room, stunned. 

  
  


He takes the elevator up to Level 10 and starts down an open walkway to clear his head. Halfway through the noise of the aircabs and flyers he stops to lean over the bannister and peer down into the innards of the city.

Way down below.

  
  


Level 7 is about to fall. Crime and violence and dust have nearly conquered its inhabitants and it is about to be closed down and join the ranks of all the decommissioned, sealed-off Levels below it.

He’s originally from L7. He no longer knows anyone who lives there.

He tries to peer through the hazy pollution that clouds everything below 6, but it is futile as always.

  
  
  
  


Almost an hour later he enters Holding. The gate beeps as it registers the chip above his right wrist, and opens without delay. The man at the window wears a wicked grin below his large nose and his close-cropped hair, and Killian sighs. Of all the people he did not want to see today, Will Scarlet is at the top of the list. Mostly because he owes Will money. Will is a fiendishly good poker player.

Which means he cheats better than everybody else.

“Heard you were coming.” Will’s grin widens. “Got her ready in H7, and let me tell you, she’s a piece of work.”

“Reject your sweet nothings, did she?”

Will laughs. “Oh, you’ll see for yourself. But you have to pay up first.”

With a sigh he peels several bills from his clip and slides them over to Will, who takes his time counting them. Then the heavy steel door buzzes open and he starts to make his way down the Holding cells.

And enters the one marked ‘H7’.

  
  


On the cot in the corner is a woman. She has her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them, as if she were trying to take up as little space as possible. She’s skinny and her clothes are threadbare and her blonde hair is dirty and looks hacked-off with a knife.

Her face is covered with fading green-yellow bruises, and a scar runs from her forehead through her eyebrow.

None of this is unexpected.

What is unexpected is the look in her eyes. It’s present and knowing and perfectly clear. This one is smart. And has never smoked dust.

Curious. He’s never met a NO/GO who wasn’t a dusthead. Not a captured one, at least.

  
  


He sits down beside her, digisheet in hand.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

She shrugs. “Because you need me for something you can’t do on your own?”

He almost laughs. This one _is_ smart. “Essentially yes. I need you because you’re not chipped.”

“Chipped?”

She can’t possibly be this naive. The upper Levels started chipping their citizens five years ago. He knows for a fact that this information has seeped Below. They’ve lost agents that way. And there has been a steady decrease in NO/GOs from the lower Levels trying to infiltrate L8 and above. She’s the first one they’ve caught in months.

  
  


He holds up his right wrist and shows her the small puncture scar on it. Then he rises and puts his arm against the terminal in the wall. His chip connects with the mainframe with a low beep, and the screen displays a menu: name, rank, occupation, clearance status, current location, living quarters, records (legal), records (medical), records (personal), other.

Her jaw drops. “Your whole life is on a chip in your wrist? All of it?”

He nods.

“That’s how you found me?”

He nods again. “Every single doorway raises an alarm if an un-chipped body attempts to walk through it. Or if someone doesn’t have clearance.”

“That’s why you guys keep calling me a NO/GO.” She bites her lip. “I guess I never stood a chance.”

He raises an eyebrow. “This is your chance. This op.”

She sighs. “What is it you need me to do?”

He shrugs. “Walk through a no-chip doorway.”

  
  


She shivers and he realizes that the reason she’s folded in on herself is not because she’s afraid or defensive.

She’s cold.

He takes off his sweater and hands it to her. “Here.” He makes sure to make his voice as brusque and unfriendly as possible.

“Thank you.” She’s sounds grateful.

“I’m not giving you my sweater out of the kindness of my heart, NO/GO.” Her gratitude is making him angry. “I need you to be able to pay attention.”

She nods. “What’s a no-chip doorway, and why do I have to walk through it?”

“We’re going on a recon mission. The problem is that the lower Levels have started to rig defenses against chips. The doorways Below sound alarms when people _with_ chips walk through them. Our last recon ended in nothing but casualties.” 

  
  


She nods again, her eyes wide. He hates and appreciates her attention in equal measure.

Then he levels her with his best glare. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You and I will take a Needle and set down somewhere inconspicuous. We will enter our target location, and you will walk through each of its doors ahead of me and zap it with this.” He holds up what looks like a small remote. “Meaning you carry this pointer facing up and push this button under the arch of each doorway. Understood?”

She’s not moving at all now. He narrows his eyes. “I advise you here and now not to fuck it up.”

“What Level?” Her voice is a whisper.

“Three.”

She gasps. “Three?”

  
  


It would be so much easier to show his command of the situation if this weren’t his exact sentiment.

  
  


“Please don’t.” She sounds scared. “Please-- please don’t make me go down to L3.”

He can’t blame her. It’s a frightening proposition. “If you do as you’re told and the mission is a success, you will get your freedom.”

She laughs out loud, and it’s a terrible sound. “If I survive, you mean.”

  
  


He quirks an eyebrow. She’s not wrong.

  
  


“And if you don’t need me as bait further down the line. If you don’t need me for any more doorways.” Her eyes narrow as she relaxes the death grip her arms have around her knees and leans forward. “And that whole line about giving me my freedom? That’s bull. I think you’ll just ‘let me live’. You won’t chip me into your Brave New World, you’ll just send me back to the Level I came from. Right?”

Maybe she’s too smart. She has hit every nail on the head so far. He doesn’t like it.

“You’ll get your freedom,” he repeats.

“You’re a very bad liar,” she whispers.

“And you really _are_ a piece of work, NO/GO.”

At that she almost smiles. “Emma,” she says.

He’s puzzled. “Emma?”

“That’s my name. So you don’t have to keep calling me NO/GO?” That’s a definite smile quirking the corners of her lips. He hasn’t seen a genuine smile in forever. It throws him for a loop, hard.

“It doesn’t matter.” It’s out before he can stop himself, and her shoulders slump instantly. There is no way to mistake his meaning. There is only one reason why her name doesn’t matter, and he wants to kick himself. Telling her she’s expendable is not the way to motivate her. Especially since she’s a Solo, without a family or loved ones they can threaten to pressure her.

  
  


He takes a deep breath. Time for a little damage control.

He holds out his hand. “Killian,” he says. “Killian Jones.”

She stares at his hand for a long, long time, before she takes it.

“Emma Swan,” she whispers. And then she looks up. “Nice to meet you.”

And by all the abdicated, wretched gods of the past, she means it.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


He makes his way slowly to the commissary from the Holding cells. His thoughts are buzzing from the strange encounter with his NO/GO, and he doesn’t like it.

What he needs is coffee and a quiet place to figure out what he’s dealing with. So he pours himself a cup of the blackest sludge the mess hall has to offer and finds himself an unoccupied table in the corner. He pulls out the digisheet and starts to scroll through the information on it.

  
  


Ten minutes later his jaw drops.

And he runs back to H7 at a sprint.

  
  


She’s still sitting in the same position on the cot, and when she looks up her expression is open. 

He pulls her up by her worn-out collar and slams her into the opposite wall. Not too hard. She’s already bruised, and he needs her later. But hard enough.

Her eyes grow large. And definitely frightened.

He leaves his left hand fisted into her sweater, _his _sweater, which she’s still wearing, and holds up the sheet with his right. “I’m going to need some answers,” he says, his voice harder than flint. “And I swear, if you lie to me, or if I don’t like what you’re saying, I promise I’ll make sure they carry your sentence tonight.”

  
  


She’s shaking. He doesn’t care.

  
  


_"You’re _the fucking informant?” His voice is a hiss of rage. _"You’re_ the reason they think Gold is on L3? Because you _told them_? _Because you came from there?_”

Still those wide, frightened eyes. She has not moved a muscle. He spins them both and throws her backwards onto the cot. Hard. A soft sound of pain escapes her. He pays no attention to it.

“Tell me this is not a setup.”

She’s just looking at him.

“You say you’ve been on L3, you say you have actually _seen _Gold, and then you just happen to traipse onto L8 and conveniently get caught, only to supply us with this information?” He’s looming over her now and she shrinks back against the wall. “Admit it. He sent you. It’s a trap.”

  
  


Her eyes become impossibly bigger. _"That’s_ where you want to go? _Gold’s?"_

He laughs in her face. The innocent act has no pull with him. “What did you think?”

She looks panicked. “I didn’t--- You didn’t---”

_"Didn’t what?_ You can’t possibly be this stupid, NO/GO.” She is infuriating. He can feel his rage boiling in earnest now. “I _told _you we were going on a recon mission. I _told _you we were heading to L3. How could you not put the pieces together? Are you daft?”

She bites her lip, and for all the world, she looks like this is a complete surprise.

  
  


“Come off it.” His voice drops an octave. “I can see right through your theatrics. Gold sent you up here, didn’t he? To lure us down, make us go in heavy, and then kill us all? It’s a setup.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “I--- I--- It isn’t. I swear.”

He laughs. Loud and bitter. “This is not story hour, little girl. Tell your lies somewhere else.”

Tears spring to her eyes. Her voice is shaking. “I promise, it’s not a trap. Nobody knows I’m here. I didn’t even know you were after Gold. The people who interrogated me, they just--- they asked me if I’d ever seen him, and I said yes. But I don’t know him. I’m not--- I’ve never spoken to him. He didn’t send me.”

He sits down next to her and fixes her with his most menacing glare. “Convince me.”

  
  


She takes a deep breath, tries to steady her voice. “I grew up on L6. I was a teacher when it fell. I’d seen it coming, applied for a position on L7, but didn’t get it. After we were cut off, most of the people became either dust runners or entertainment. It was the proverbial choice between the rock and the hard place. I became entertainment.” Another deep breath. “I found a place in a Fun House on L5. And eventually I was promoted Down.”

  
  


“Promoted _down_?”

She shrugs. “The rules are different Below. It’s the exact opposite of the Above. Below the rim, the lower your Level, the higher your standing. I had a regular who liked me and was making a name for himself on the lower rungs. He requested me down on L3. So I got shipped Down.”

“What was his name?”

“Walsh.”

  
  


Killian whistles before he can stop himself. Whispers down the ether put Walsh firmly into Gold’s inner circle. There is no way this is not a setup.

  
  


“I spent some time on L3 being his exclusive companion.” She shivers hard, and her voice drops to a whisper. “It was--- it was awful. He was--- he is not a nice man.”

It’s odd, the way she puts that. This innocent euphemism. Everything about her is incongruous, and it pisses him off to no end. He resents people who don’t fit into categories, who act counter to type and experience.

  
  


Tears once again spring to her eyes, and he can’t help but look at the fading bruises on her face. The scar on her forehead.

“I waited and waited for a chance, just a chance, and then one day I got it. It was escape or die trying. Either one was fine with me.” The tears start to roll down her cheeks, she ignores them. “And now you want me to go back there?”

  
  


His eyes narrow. It’s either the world’s greatest performance, or she’s telling the truth. She can’t be telling the truth. He shakes his head. He is being as stupid as she is.

Finally she lifts up her chin and looks him straight in the eye. “Carry my sentence. I’m not going back there.”

  
  


She is _good_. It really looks like she means it.

  
  


“Your sentence is a poison needle and you know it.”

She doesn’t flinch. “Yes. I know.”

“You’d take a lethal injection rather than tell me the truth?”

Her eyes are steady, and very, very green. There’s not an ounce of guile in them. “I _am_ telling you the truth. Believe what you want to - you’re going to anyway.” She takes a deep breath, but her voice no longer wavers. “Do what you want with me. But I’m not going back.”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


When he exits Holding this time, he makes a beeline for the nearest terminal. He holds up his wrist, clears the entry, and types in REQ/INFO: EMMA SWAN.

He leans back as he waits for the search to access the Deep Archive.

  
  


Up on L12, the Deep Archive server farms house a century’s worth of records. It is their history, the history of civilization as they know it. There is not much left in the way of hard facts from when people lived on the Ground, and most of it is written fiction. The Deep Archive is the lone guardian of the past.

  
  


There’s a low beep and record links start scrolling up. Emma Swan’s life does not amount to much.

The header reads: 

SWAN, EMMA

F

DOB: unknown

AGE: 30 (est.)

Rh: O-

  
  


The last one catches his eye. She’s a universal donor. Which means she’ll get the chair, not the needle, because blood is in short supply. It makes him slightly queasy. The chair is not how anyone wants to go.

  
  


He scrolls down. Her date of birth is unknown because she was found, just an infant in a basket, screaming in an abandoned building on L6. The physician who examined her put her at between four and eight months old at the time. She was malnourished, so it was hard to tell.

There are listings for the General Orphanage and a few group homes - nothing out of the ordinary. There is a graduation certificate from a secondary school, and a teaching certificate for high school English. An employment record for L6 HS #3, and then nothing.

The Level had buckled and been closed off, and the records ceased.

  
  


It’s odd, the way these puzzle pieces fit together. The way they lure him into thinking she was telling the truth.

  
  


He pulls up her medical records from Holding and stares at them for a long time. And then makes his way upstairs.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  


“I need more incentive.”

He slaps the sheet down on Regina’s desk. Her face does not move a muscle. “Explain, Captain.”

“You realize that this is most likely a setup.”

Regina quirks a superior eyebrow. “Have you seen her medical records?”

He grinds his teeth and nods.

“Do you think that kind of treatment inspires loyalty?”

He sits down in front of her and glares daggers. He has already come to the same conclusion. And the answer is no. It most likely does not inspire any loyalty.

  
  


Regina is silent for a long moment, just matching his gaze. When she finally speaks, her voice is brittle. “Do you know how she got onto this level, Captain?”

He narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. “Since you didn’t choose to include that in your report, you know that I don’t.”

Regina leans forward. “She climbed.”

His brows furrow. “That’s impossible. The stairwells are sealed and bolted. She must have stowed on a transport. Or an aircab.”

Regina shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Captain. She did not climb a stairwell. She climbed a building. On the outside.”

  
  


He stares at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “She _what_?”

“Scaled the facade of an L8 just inside the perimeter. With nothing but rubber shoes and suction cups.”

His jaw drops. “There is no way. Absolutely no way. It’s not humanly possible.”

Regina smirks. “And yet she did. She picked an older building, so there were window sills and ledges. They must have provided a modicum of rest. But yes. Essentially she hauled herself up by her arms for at least one whole Level. But more likely two.”

“Two?”

“Anti-scaling gear has already been placed on most buildings on L7.”

  
  


So Level 7 is mere months from being closed down. Weeks, maybe. He gets a brief flash of the apartment where he grew up. The basketball court on the roof of one of the lower buildings, which had been converted into a park. He shakes his head. This is no time for sentiment.

  
  


“She crossed four walkways unimpeded. The alarm didn’t go off until she entered a coffee shop. In a way it was fortunate, because it alerted us to a security gap on top of that particular building. Not that we ever anticipated anyone actually being able to come up that way.”

He feels stunned.

“In any case, Captain, does this strike you as the action of someone who’s bait?”

He hates to concede the point. “It would be a surefire way to get us to believe that she isn’t.”

Regina laughs. Actually laughs. “I suggest you go and see for yourself. And then make up your mind.”

  
  


He sighs. “Well, in case it really isn’t a setup, we have another problem.”

Regina merely raises her eyebrows.

“She refuses to cooperate. Says she’ll take the needle before she goes back down.”

Regina picks up the sheet. “She’s a UD. She’s not getting the needle.”

Again he tamps down on the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Chief. I know she’s a universal donor. But I can’t threaten her with the chair. The chair is only scary to those who know what it does. And it’s not like we have a handy execution scheduled so we could show her.”

  
  


It takes his commanding officer entirely too long to answer. It almost looks like she’s _considering_ a demonstration. Not for the first time Killian wonders just how ruthless she really is.

Finally she huffs in impatience. “Then convince her.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no convincing her. She doesn’t care about her life. The fact that she scaled a building alone should tell you she doesn’t. She only wants one thing, and that is not to return to L3. Not on her life. Literally.”

“You told her we would give her her freedom?”

He sighs again. “Of course. She saw right through it.”

“What did you have in mind, Captain?”

“Give her a seat at the table. Guarantee her a chip and place up here.” He meets her gaze head-on. “And by ‘guarantee’ I don’t mean ‘promise’. I mean ‘guarantee’. An official pardon. A legal document that entitles her to a chip and a clean slate and a life among us. Signed by the Rulers themselves.”

  
  


Regina looks at him for an uncomfortably long time. He does not blink.

Finally she nods. “Very well Captain. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Before 2300.” He knows that the departure time was carefully selected, not randomly chosen. Knows that several aspects not listed on the bare-bones information imparted to him via digisheet were factored into it. Mission times are never circumstantial. And no matter what, it will be crucial to keep this one.

Regina almost smiles. “Before 2300. Dismissed.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i must be insane for trying to write this. i get the sinking feeling it'll be bigger than 'break me'.  
But i hope, hope, hope you'll come along for the ride.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  


The wind whips hard across his face as he stands on the flat roof of the L8 building his NO/GO came up. Just as Regina said, it is on the very edge of the perimeter, barely inside it. The surrounding buildings on three sides are lower than the structure he is standing on, and there is nothing to break the hard gusts coming from the vast expanse of No Man’s Land beyond. He can’t see past the pollution, but he knows that circling outwards from this point the buildings taper off quickly into lowrises and something called ‘brownstones’, each no more than five stories high. 

Back when he was a boy, pollution only reached up just past L3, and you could still see the hulking, burned-out remnants of the brick behemoths that rose outside the perimeter. Beyond them, they say, is a vast stretch of residences called  _ mansions _ , and  _ houses _ , and  _ bungalows _ . Legend has it that people used to live in these one family per building. They showed them pictures of these  _ suburbs _ back in school, but he cannot imagine it.

He walks slowly over to the rim of the highrise and looks down. And immediately pulls his head back.

He is not afraid of heights. He is not afraid of anything, really. 

But this?

This is  _ insane _ .

It’s an abyss of gale-force winds and grimy glass panes and broken sills, it’s a cavernous, yawning maw of terror, it’s a sheer drop to certain death.

No one would try to scale this unless driven by nothing but the purest desperation. No one.

He thinks there’s not a person alive who would attempt this climb if there were any other option. Probably not even then. It’s likely people would choose torture, actual torture, over trying to haul themselves up this building across two Levels. Whatever the NO/GO was fleeing, it was enough to send her up this, up  _ this _ , with nothing but suction cups and a complete disregard for her own life.

There is no way, absolutely no way, she was sent up here.

He can see that now.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


The third time he walks through the Holding doors, Will just smirks at him.

“ _ Again _ , Jones? People are going to talk.”

Killian glares at Will. “Is her barcode active? I’m taking her with me.”

Will nods. “You got the basics.”

Killian’s glare intensifies. “I don’t need the basics. I need  _ my _ clearance.”

For the first time, Will looks flustered. “I can’t give her your clearance. It’s standard protocol to give NO/GOs----”

“Check your fucking records, Scarlet,” he growls. “Does any of this look like standard protocol to you?”

Finally Will remembers that Killian outranks him by four promotions, and hits a few keys on his terminal.

When he looks up his eyes are as big as saucers. “She’s cleared for a  _ mission _ ?”

Killian merely raises an eyebrow.   
Will hits a few more keys, and his voice turns sober, professional. “All done, sir. Proceed.”

  
  
  
  
  


The door to her cell opens once more, and he strides in angry. He’s been angry every time he came to see her.

Emma doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what brings him this time, either; whether it’s more attempts at coercion or a walk to her final destination. She’s said her piece and made her peace and that’s all there is to it.

When he tells her to get up and come with him, she doesn’t ask why.

At the doorway he tells her to hold up her wrist to a small, dark piece of glass set into the side of the frame. A red pinpoint of light wanders over the barcode with which she was imprinted when they first processed her, and there is a low beep.

He nods.

They walk through a confusing myriad of corridors and hallways, and she has to scan her barcode at each one.

Finally they exit into a small plaza, obviously the converted roof of a shorter building, and she smells fresh air for the first time in days. The sky above is cloudy and promises rain, wind comes in gusts from between the skyscrapers. She tries to get her bearings but he won’t let her, just rushes across the courtyard into the opposite building. She has trouble keeping up.

They ascend three flights of stairs, and Emma realizes that up here, the Level heights are different. Below, they are three, maybe four storeys high. This stairwell alone spans at least five. They go down another hallway, this one carpeted, with numbered doors on each side. He holds up his wrist to one marked 8A/31, and it opens with a quiet click. When they enter she realizes that this must be his apartment.

It’s small and sparse and entirely utilitarian, but the far wall is a huge window, and she can’t help but gasp. She can see the city. Can see the buildings and the walkways and the aircabs and the  _ people _ ; a clear view, unobscured by fumes and smog and soot. She walks up to the window as if pulled by strings, and he lets her look and look and look. She can’t get enough.

When she finally turns around, there is an odd, figuring expression on his face, but he no longer looks angry.

“Are you hungry?” His voice is neutral.

She nods.

“Have a seat,” he says, and points to the nondescript couch. “I’ll nuke us something. And then we have to talk.”

  
  
  


Five minutes later he hands her a bowl of soup that smells delicious. Like it is made from actual ingredients, from vegetables that were grown somewhere, not unidentifiable proteins and artificial flavors. She hasn’t had real food in years. 

He sits down next to her on the couch, holding his own bowl. He looks tired.

“Dig in. I promise it’s not poisoned.”

Emma smirks. “I know it’s not. You need me alive.” 

He sighs. “That I do.”

She tries the soup and it’s so good, her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. When she looks back up, he’s almost smiling at her reaction.

She gulps her soup fast, in large, burning-hot mouthfuls, and then realizes how it must look to him and puts down her bowl very carefully on the low table in front of her. “Why?”

He sighs again. “What do you remember of the creation of the Levels? What did they teach you in school on L6?”

She leans back, and tries to get comfortable. This sofa is so much better than the cot in her cell. And it looks like this conversation might take a while. She’ll take every minute she can get, every one that does not involve him trying to convince her to go down to L3, or her being thrown back into Holding. She clears her throat, gathers her thoughts. 

“The Levels were basically a response to crime, I think. At least in the beginning. Pollution, too. People in the lowrises actually started it all by constructing walkways between their roofs and upper floors. Which is how Level 1 came about. Ground Level was overrun with gangs and guns and dust, and so the people who could afford to go up, went up.”

He nods at her, a strange expression on his face. She can’t place it at all.

“And since then people have been moving up, because crime and pollution and everything keeps catching up with them, and forcing the people on the higher Levels to close the ones Below.”

He nods. “That’s the official version.”

She raises her eyebrows in question.

He looks even more tired now. “What do you remember of L6 before it fell?”

She takes a deep breath and looks down at her hands. “It was normal. Just-- just a place for people to live and work and…. It was a nice place. And then suddenly it wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

She can feel her face scrunch with the effort of remembering. “There were reports, suddenly, reports of gangs and dustheads and crime on the rise.”

“Did you see these gangs? The crime? The dustheads?”

“Not at first. Not for a long time, actually. I thought the broadcasts were making it up. Everything seemed just--- I don’t know, surreal. Far away. But then stuff started to happen. The school I worked at started randomly drug testing students and lots of them got locked away for dust. I lived above a small supermarket. I think they were broken into three times in the same year. I tried to get a job on L7, but they wouldn’t take me. Said the position wasn’t open to anyone on my Level.”

His face is somber. “And then?”

“People started to disappear,” she whispers. “There was talk of them escaping up, or getting thrown in jail. Curfew was instated. You couldn’t go outside after dark. They said it was too dangerous. And then troops came and started rigging barbed wire coils and spikes on buildings and walkways.”

He nods. “Anti-scaling devices.” His voice is soft.

“And then one day we were simply cut off. All communication went down. No more broadcasts from Above. All the stairwells leading up were welded shut. All the police and the Level managers had left. All the civil service buildings were empty. The schools were closed. There was chaos and riots for weeks. Nothing was left standing.”

She shudders.

“And then the Dragons came.”

He leans forward. “The  _ what _ ?”

“Dragons. Red Dragons.” She looks up. He shakes his head, and she clarifies. “Men in black gear and red masks. They went through all the apartments and rounded us up. Some people resisted and were shot on the spot. I was so hungry by then, and so scared, I just went with them.”

For a moment his hand moves; it almost looks like he wants to take hers. But he catches himself, and motions for her to go on.

“I was put into a holding cell with lots of other people, and we were given a choice: become dust runners or entertainment. Or go back out on the streets and fend for ourselves.” She looks down. She is not proud of her decision. “I chose entertainment. I was afraid of everything else.”

“It’s all right.” His voice is almost gentle. “It was an impossible choice.”

He doesn’t force her to look up, lets her be.

“Listen to me now, because this is important.” His voice is determined, yet devoid of emotion. “The reason all of this happened, the reason your Level fell, the reason L7 is about to fall, is one man.”

Her eyes snap up, and he meets her gaze.

“You remember that some of the Levels below you were still open when you grew up?”

She nods mutely. It’s true. She remembers L5 and even L4 not being closed. It’s a vague memory - being stuck in group homes and orphanages, she never had the chance to explore much. But she does remember encountering people from both Above and Below.

“This man, this one man, has brought down three Levels in fifteen years, and he’s about to bring down a fourth. He is responsible for the demise of thousands of people. And we have to stop him.” Killian’s eyes are burning now. “And that’s why I need you.”

She shakes her head. What he is saying is insane.

“That’s impossible. One man could never--- and for what purpose? What could his endgame possibly be?”

Killian smiles at her, hard and bitter. “Power, of course. He’s building his empire from the ground up. And he won’t stop until he has swallowed the whole city and made it his.”

“So you’re saying that all of this, all of it, is because of----”

“Yes.” His face is sad and serious. “All of this is because of one Mr. Gold.”

  
  
  
  
  


He watches her lean back and take it all in. She’s smart enough to understand all the implications - even if she doesn’t believe him quite yet.

When she looks at him, her expression conveys actual regret. “I can’t do it.” Her voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry. I know you need this. But I can’t--- I can’t---”

Her voice cuts out and he has the urge to call her by her name.

It makes him angry. That way madness lies. Start calling her Emma instead of NO/GO and pretty soon she’s a  _ person _ . That can’t happen. She’s not a person. She’s a means to an end.

She can obviously see the anger reflected in his features, because she pulls up her legs and wraps her arms around them, like a shield. It makes him even angrier. Like he’s losing all the ground he has just gained with her.

Fuck it. Time to whistle a different tune.

“Look, NO/GO.” This ‘NO/GO’ he throws in just to remind himself who she is. And isn’t. “I’m going to be honest with you.” If possible her arms wrap even tighter around her knees. “When L6 fell, the people Above, the Rulers and the upper echelons on 11 and 12, lost their collective shit. Because Level 6 is the halfway point. More than the halfway point, if you’re on L11.” She blinks slowly, but does not react. “When 7 started to wobble, all law enforcement and troops were moved to L8. We’re supposed to be the first and last line of defense. They think no one can defect Up into a bastion of trained agents.” He smirks. “You disabused them of that notion for a minute, but trust me, they’ll be going over every single perceived security gap for months.”

Her tension ratchets up several notches, but she does not speak. Just looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. A small part of him cannot blame her.

“So you see, neutralizing Gold and his organization, and hopefully liberating the lower Levels, is not something they’re doing because it’s the right thing to do. They’re doing it because it is imperative to their survival.” 

Her face scrunches up. “Their  _ survival _ ? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

He merely quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Won’t they do what they’ve always done and just open up another---” He can see it. The exact moment she figures it out. “Oh. They’ve reached the top. Haven’t they.”

He just nods.

“I am starting to understand their conundrum.” Her eyes are large, and there is a question in them now. “I guess it is a matter of survival then. Although it feels like poetic justice to me.”

He smirks again. “It’s definitely both. But it also means that for a fighting chance, they are willing to pay.”

When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper. “Pay?”

He nods. “Pay. If the price for you going down to help me scout the place is your citizenship and your freedom to live chipped above L8, they’ll give it to you. If we can wrangle the intel you and I gather into a successful mission afterwards, you might even warrant a job and a place to live.”

“How--- how can you be sure?” Her voice is still low. “It sounds like exactly the kind of thing you would promise someone like me. The kind of promise you don’t mean to keep.”

Oh, if only she were stupid. What he wouldn’t give for a dusthead right about now.

He sighs. “I know. It sounds too good to be true. So I asked my CO to get you an official guarantee. Signed by the Rulers.”

She takes a deep breath. “Can’t--- I’m sorry, but can’t they be faked? I have no idea what official documents are supposed to look like.” Her voice is still low, but there is a faint note of longing in it now, and he knows he’s got her.

He’s got her.

He gives her his best smile. “I guess there’s always a risk. But the docs will be real. I promise you that.”

  
  


-/-

  
  


Low beeps wake her up, and it takes her a moment to figure out where she is. She’s lying on something soft, and she’s warm, so she’s definitely not in her cell. She sits up.

The huge window wall opposite her shows thousands of lights spread across darkness, and she’s on a couch, under a blanket. Comfortable. Unafraid. The last one surprises her.

“You awake, NO/GO?”

He is sitting at the kitchen counter, in front of a mobile terminal, looking at her over the screen. Only a small side lamp is lit, she can barely make out his face.

She nods.

“Your documents came.” His voice is neutral again. “Come look.”

Emma gets up, wraps the blanket around her, and pads over to him. He points to an official-looking document on the screen and then pulls out a piece of clear plastic, firm enough to stay upright when held, flexible enough to roll up when needed. There’s a small symbol in the upper left hand corner, and he touches it to the same symbol on the lower right hand corner of his screen.

The document appears on the piece of plastic, in full.

Emma gasps.

He hands her the plastic, smirking. “Never seen a digisheet before?”

Emma shakes her head. “We--- we had terminals and handhelds, of course, but nothing like---” She smiles. “This is tasty.”

Then she turns her attention to its content. The wording is legalese of the most infuriatingly complicated kind, and as she scrolls down three pages she has to keep stopping and going back. When she finally lowers the sheet, she feels like she has only understood a fraction of the text. But it certainly sounds like a pardon. A pardon that comes with a chip and a promise of a better life. She doesn’t believe a word of it.

He’s looking at her, his face devoid of expression. “So?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know if this is real.”

His face does not move. “It’s real. You can hold on to this.”

She thinks of her options.

Refuse and be executed.

Go on this mission with him and die.

Go and survive -- and then find out it was all a ruse and get sent back down to 6.

Or worse -- end up back on L3.

She doesn’t like any of these choices, but they are what she has. She pulls the blanket more tightly around her.

“Are you still cold?” His voice is quiet, low.

She shakes her head and lets go of the blanket. She’s still wearing his sweater. It’s soft.

Reluctantly she starts to pull up the hem, and he stops her. “Keep it.”

When she looks up at him, his eyes are dark, his face unreadable. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t go down to L3 wearing this.” His eyebrows rise. “And neither can you.” She tries hard to make her voice steady. “We’ll both have to change.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


“Why do you call this a Needle?”

It’s the first thing she’s said since they left his apartment. When the time came, she just walked alongside him to the launch deck, trying to match his stride. They boarded and she watched in silence as he piloted them to the edge of the perimeter.

“Because it’s narrow and light and can spin around the z-axis,” he says, aligning himself with the burnt-out hulk of a former highrise and spinning the craft vertical. The gimble groans as the seats compensate, keeping them horizontal, and she exhales a small, surprised breath. He starts his descent down the concrete remains, camouflaged by both the building’s side and the smog. “When you want to go somewhere unnoticed, it’s like threading a needle.”

She looks at her feet, now hanging above the windshield, and stares down into the grey fog below. There’s a slight tremble in her hands as she folds them in her lap.

They descend down past cracked brickwork and decrepit walkways, soot and grime starting to settle and smear across the windows. There’s less and less light the further they go - few windows are lit, most street lamps are out. The brightest spots are dilapidated neon signs. He can feel her tension mount with each meter they descend. Her hands are shaking in earnest now, and it looks like her whole body has started to vibrate. He halts the Needle next to a gaping, broken window, extends the clamp to the sill, and powers down.

Her breathing is shallow and fast.

He pulls a sticky from his pocket and reaches for her arm. She jerks back violently.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Her voice is an angry hiss. Angry and scared. Terrified.

He holds up the sticky, shows it to her. “It’s all right, NO/GO.” He tries to make his voice non-threatening. “This is just to help you relax.”

Her eyes are wide and supremely suspicious. “You’re  _ drugging _ me?”

He shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. This will help prevent panic. We all put one on before a mission. Look.” He pulls up his sleeve, puts it on his left wrist, right on the pulse point. “You just stick it on your skin, like a band-aid. It’s a very light muscle relaxant and beta blocker. Just to help you keep your mental equilibrium.”

He pulls out another sticky and reaches for her arm again. This time she lets him, even though she looks like it’s taking everything she has not to snatch it out of his grip. Her wrist trembles hard as he grasps it and puts the small piece of adhesive on her own pulse point.

Her skin is cool.

He holds on to her hand until the shaking stops.

Finally she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “This feels... nice. I can understand the appeal.” When she opens her eyes, she looks perfectly calm.

He holds his right wrist up to a small monitor and presses a red button. The word DEACTIVATED flashes across the screen, and he meets her questioning gaze.

“The doorways probably just scan for hardware. It’s unlikely that they’re looking for a signal, but why take the chance?”

Her brow furrows. “So we’re on our own?”

Her brain just never misses a beat. He almost smiles. “We are.” Then he takes off his seatbelt. “Are you ready?”

She nods. Squares her shoulders. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m ThisOneSatellite over on tumblr, if you’d like to say hi!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!!


	3. Chapter 3

  
  


The flickering neon sign above the entrance reads  _ The Rabbit Hole, _ and they enter without complication.

It turns out that this time of the night is a very busy time at this particular establishment, and so they simply melt into the throng of people slowly pushing along the hallway towards the bar. So far the clicker has worked and no alarm has sounded, and getting him busted does not seem to be her plan. Yet.

He has his hand wrapped around the back of her neck, something upon which she insisted. It doesn’t sit well with him at all, this show of strength and dominance, never mind the fact that every single male they have encountered with a female has his hand wrapped around her neck in exactly the same way. Twice they pass a man who has a woman on a leash.

_ On a leash. _

It’s barbaric to watch, even for him, and he has no emotional investment in these NO/GOs at all.

He tries to keep his hand loose and relaxed, tries not to push her along. He’s uncomfortable enough as it is, especially in these clothes. They went to the decommissioned evidence storage lot to pick undercover outfits, and he ended up in all black garments which are much too tight for comfort and made from synthetics which absolutely do not breathe.   
He’s sweating already.

Right before the entrance to the bar room she turns left down a dingy corridor. He reminds himself again to move his eyes slowly, so that the feed recorded by his contact lenses remains as clear as possible. Solid doors with serious locks are interspersed along each side of the grimy hallway. He can see dirt and old, rust-colored blood smears along the floors and walls. There are cameras everywhere. Above each doorway. Along the ceiling.

“Entertainment quarters,” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth, and he gently squeezes her neck to tell her he heard her. Her skin is slippery now. She is sweating, too, most likely in fear.

“Want me to try and access my old room?”

She’s shaking. He looks at the cameras again, slows down.

“No,” he whispers. “The doors are all monitored, that’ll just get us caught. Can you access another room?”

She nods imperceptibly and starts to walk with purpose. Halfway down the corridor the doors change - instead of numbers they now sport red or green lights, and keypads. She walks up to a green-lit one and punches in a 5-digit code. The door clicks open, the light above it turns red. They enter and she closes the door. As soon as she locks it, the lights turn on.

The room is tiny and does not have any windows. A bed takes up most of the space, filthy sheets haphazardly stretched across a rubber-covered mattress. In the corner is a toilet and a sink, there are stains on the carpet. This room is the manifestation of the very human urge to find relief inside of misery, even if it’s only for a brief moment. Even if it’s at the expense of another human being. It is a monument to both defeat and desperation, and it is devastating in its squalor.

“Don’t touch anything,” she says as he slowly lets his hand fall from her neck. Her own hand comes up to rub it and he can see that it has turned faintly red.

“Are you all right?” He can’t help but ask.

She turns around and the look she gives him is open and honest and so absolutely disparate to the torment this room represents, it throws him for another hard loop. She really has to stop doing that. He really has to stop reacting to her.

Instead she smiles,  _ smiles _ , and says calmly, “I’m fine. I’m not afraid of you.”

The rage that comment incites takes him completely by surprise. It burns straight through the smoothed-out emotions from the sticky on his wrist and bursts forth without preamble.

He grabs her arm, squeezes it tightly, until his own fingers hurt. “Are you sure about that, NO/GO? Do you even know who I am?” His voice drops to a menacing hiss. “If I were you, I’d be very,  _ very _ afraid.”

Her eyes do not change. They are calm and understanding.

“This room is laced with pheromones,” she says, matter-of-factly. “They trigger desire, mostly, but also other basic instincts, like anger and dominance. Just try to relax, and not to breathe too deeply.”

It makes perfect sense, it is the perfect explanation, and yet it’s a struggle to rein himself in. Especially when he can’t take his customary deep, centering breaths. She puts her hand on his, and it is only then that he notices he still has her arm in a vice grip. His fingers unclench slowly, leave red marks on her skin. She pats his hand, as if to assure him there are no hard feelings.

“Trust me when I tell you that if I had met you five years ago, I would have been nothing but afraid of you.” Her voice is soft. And very sincere. “But if you want to survive being entertainment, you have to develop a good sense of people really fast. Or else you don’t.” She looks at him, clarifies. “Don’t survive.”

He can feel his heartbeat slowing down, feel the rage receding, feel the cocktail on the sticky realign his equilibrium.

“I have met real danger and real terror down here, and you are neither. And that is why I am not afraid of you.”

It’s oddly comforting to hear her say that.

“The pheromones don’t bother you?”

“I’m immune to them by now. We all are.”

He shakes the last cobwebs from his head and slowly reaches out to touch her arm. “Sorry about that.” His fingertips whisper across her skin before he drops his hand. “I’m good now.” 

She merely waves his concern away and then looks up at a wall-mounted digital countdown he had not noticed before. “Standard operating time is ten minutes. Which leaves us a little over six before we have to get out. If you have questions so far, ask them now.” She bites her lip. “I don’t know when we’ll get another quiet moment. The bar is going to be loud, and crammed full of people.”

It almost sounds as if she’s giving him orders, and it takes an enormous effort to stop his hackles from rising.

“Do all rooms look like this?” He finally grinds out.

“No, these are temps. For people who get a floater, or just want to have some quick fun with the partner they brought.” She points in the general direction of the hallway. “I was a regular. The doors we passed in the beginning are ours. Our rooms were a bit nicer; we got clean sheets and a decent bed and handhelds so we could read books. Pass the time between visits.”

“Windows?”

“No. No windows. And we couldn’t open our own doors. Someone had to let us out.”

“You opened this one.”

“That’s because it’s a numbered lock. There’s a general override code, and we all know it. A girl got it from the head of security in exchange for a free ride years ago, and it gets passed down the line to every newbie. I don’t know why they never change it. Probably because it only works on these doors. Not on any of the important ones.” She sighs. “Not on the doors that lead outside.”

He shakes his head. The sheer misery of this place is overwhelming. “One of these days you’re going to have to explain to me exactly how you escaped.”

She sighs again. “I will. But it’s a long story. Too long for now.”

He checks the countdown. Less than three minutes. “What’s at the end of this hallway?”

She shivers. “There’s a stairwell on the left that goes down. I don’t know what it leads to, because there are guards. Lots of guards. All of them Dragons, armed to the teeth.” Her eyes grow wide and start to dart around. “We cannot go down there. Please--- we  _ can’t _ .”

“Hey.” He puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezes until she meets his gaze. “Relax, OK? We’re not here to stir up trouble. We’re definitely not here to draw attention to ourselves. We’re here to gather information on the layout of this place and the clientele. And if we’re lucky, catch a sighting of Gold. That is all. OK?” He lets go of her. “You good?”

She nods.

“Good. Now tell me what else is at the end of this hallway.”

“Another doorway.” She pulls the clicker back out, lets it slide between her fingers. “If we go straight, it will take us to the bar.”

“Well,” he says, taking a last look around, “let’s go that way, then.”

She waits at the door until he puts his hand back on her neck. Her skin is still damp, all her muscles feel strained. When his fingers wrap around the base of her skull, he can feel her tremble.

“We don’t have to do it like this,” he whispers. “I don’t have to hold you this way.”

She doesn’t turn around. “Yes, you do.”

She unlocks the door while he tries not to think about what she just said. And what it implies.

She’s a means to an end.

Nothing more.

They walk down the corridor in silence, heads lowered so as to give the cameras the least amount of visible facial features. He can see the doorway at the end, and he can also see the staircase branching off on the left. As they pass it, he glances down.

It’s a short set of concrete steps that end in a landing and continue on at a right angle, out of sight. In the few seconds he has, he counts at least four armed guards. They look exactly like she described them - black mesh and body armor, red masks that look like synthetic stockings with goggles and mouthpieces. Each holding a semi-automatic weapon in position. All of them look wary and alert.

From their body language alone he can tell that these men are trained and competent. And definitely guarding something important.

He pretends to stumble half-drunk, and manages to turn them both towards the opposite wall. The less these guards see of them, the better.

And then they’re through.

The noise level in the bar is deafening, and it’s filled past capacity. He has to admit she chose her outfit well, much as he doubted it back when she put it on. She looks like all the other girls in their short, cheap, brightly-colored shift dresses that look like indecent slips more than outerwear. Her make-up is no heavier than that of the faces around her, and perfectly in line with the tawdriness of the venue. Her hand moves up to her hacked-off hair and musses it until it falls like a mop around and in front of her face. Like camouflage.

They slowly make their way to the bar, and he bends his mouth to her ear. “Is it customary to buy the woman a drink as well?”

She nods, and he orders two house cocktails. Every bar has a house cocktail. It is always the safest thing to order. She points her chin towards a bar table and they squeeze themselves between the patrons already standing around it. He lets his eyes wander and his hand slide down, until his arm is loosely draped around her shoulder. She lets him. Many of the men around them hold their companions the same way.

The music is loud and aggressive and he can feel the beat vibrate in his bones. There’s no dancefloor to speak of, just free-standing tables and booths along the walls. Bodies are grinding in every available space in between, gaudy colors rubbing together, bottles emptied into gaping mouths, glasses tilted towards endless painted lips. It looks frantic and joyless and desperate, this pursuit of happiness and oblivion--- seedy and brazen and infinitely sad.

He looks at her as she stands next to him, trying to make herself as small and as inconspicuous as possible, resolutely staring at the table top and not looking at anyone or anything. Before he can stop himself he pulls her towards him, into his side, and squeezes her shoulder.

Her head snaps up in surprise.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know why he did what he did. He just knows that she’s terrified, absolutely terrified, and he wants to let her know she is not alone.

That he will not leave her down here.

She smiles a faint smile, and he nods. She heard him.

Then he feels a presence beside them, feels a faint sense of danger, a slight prickling of instinct, and suddenly a man appears at the table. He is tall and lanky, with a dangerous nonchalance to his movements, and a cruel slant to his mouth. He looks straight at Killian as he quietly says, “Emma.”

Killian can hear it clearly, even over the din.

She goes rigid. Her shoulders start to tremble and Killian is glad he put a sticky on her. Hopes it’s enough to let her keep her head. He squeezes her shoulder, lets her know he’s still there. 

The man raises an amused eyebrow and lazily lifts up his right hand to reveal a small, squat, shiny metal disk.

And then.

  
  


Emma turns around and pushes Killian’s shoulders and yells “Run!” as

the man reaches for a ring of fabric around his neck, pulls black mesh across his nose and mouth, as

Killian turns, encounters a wall of tightly packed bodies, tries to push his way through the masses, as

the man raises his thumb, pushes the button on top of the disk, slowly, so slowly---

as Killian turns back to grab Emma’s arm,

as a cloud of grey smoke explodes from the disk, 

as the first people around them fall, just fall down-- eyes rolling, knees buckling, 

as he realizes it’s getting very hard to breathe

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the man reaching for Emma 

sees her knee find his groin, 

sees the pain fold him in half, 

sees Emma rip the mask off his face as he goes down, hard----

and then everything goes black.

  
  
  
  
  


Emma presses the mesh to her face and takes her first breath since the gas cloud erupted. People are passing out all around her. Bodies are collapsing, twisting into heaps of tangled limbs and gasping breaths, but she can see Killian ahead.

On the floor. Unmoving.

She ties the straps of the mask around her head and kicks off her heels, and makes her way to where she can still see his head in a pile of gaudy neon tops. She steps on multiple hands and fingers on her way, but she can’t stop, can’t slow down, because she knows she has seconds.

Seconds only.

She grabs him by the hair and  _ pulls. _

Pulls him into the booth next to them and rolls them both under the seat, just as the first Dragon enters the room.

The music cuts off. 

  
  


She pulls Killian’s shirt up, covers his whole face. For what it’s worth now.

Smoke curls around them and she can hear bodies still dropping and muffled commands as she frantically pulls at the grate in the wall under the seat. It comes loose with a groan of metal hinges, and for a moment her heart nearly stops at the noise. But the din in the bar is enough to obscure it. 

Slowly, very slowly she slides up towards the grate, over Killian’s still body, face-first through the opening and the catwalk behind it. She lands on rusted metal, the catwalk shakes beneath her weight; half of the struts dangle broken and loose. She turns and starts to pull him towards her. He lands with a clang of dead weight, and the walkway shakes in earnest. Emma reaches up, pulls the grate closed, sinks down next to him, and tries to catch her breath.

Puts her hand on his neck, feels his pulse-- weak and thready.

She can feel panic at the very edges of her consciousness, but it’s not spreading, not taking over. Whatever he put on her wrist, it holds.

It is dark in here, in this crawlspace between buildings, but she knows this, she knows  _ this. _

This is how she escaped the first time.

  
  


Emma pulls the mesh from her face, and takes a deep breath, and gets up. With shaking fingers she takes off her scarf and wraps it around his around his head, makes a tight knot at the back of his neck. Then she ties Killian’s boots together and grips the laces and pulls him along behind her. His head bangs across the grated metal, but there is nothing she can do, except hope that her scarf gives him enough protection.

She pulls until her arms and shoulders burn, until her breath comes in gasps of pure pain, until the stitch in her side becomes a stabbing ache.

And still she pulls.

And pulls.

And pulls.

And pulls and pulls and pulls him along, until they get to the drop and she falls to her knees in relief.

She can’t see the bottom. But she couldn’t last time, either.

With an effort she wraps her shaking arms around his torso as tightly as she can and then she pushes them both past the edge.

She lands on top of him in a half-filled garbage bin. Exactly where she landed before. 

Somewhere very far away her brain takes note that neither Walsh nor his minions have actually figured out exactly how she escaped. The realization gives her hope.

She heaves him over the lip of the bin, and shudders at the low thump his body makes as it hits concrete. Then she climbs out and sinks to her knees and just breathes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

_ Get up. _

_ Get up. _

_ Get. _

_ Up. _

Her arms are shaking hard as she squats, pulls his arm and a leg across her shoulders, and lifts him up. Her knees buckle, nearly send them both sprawling.

_ It’s just one walkway. _

She takes the first wobbling step, and then another, and another, and repeats in her head,  _ it’s just one walkway. _

Just this one walkway.

Covered and deserted and decommissioned.

Creaking and cracked, loose metal struts groaning under their weight.

_ Just this one walkway. _

She bites her lip until she tastes blood and forces herself to put one foot in front of the other.

_ Just this one walkway. _

She’s slow, so slow. It is taking forever. And he’s heavy, so heavy.

_ Just this one walkway. _

When she gets to the entrance of the building on the other side, he slides down her shoulders and hits the ground with another thump.

And she sinks down next to him, just collapses, and starts to cry.

Because she doesn’t know how she’ll get him up two flights of stairs and out of a window back into the Needle.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  


When he wakes up, all he can feel is that his head is trying to split open. He has never felt pain like this-- piercing and pounding and almost debilitating, 

He slowly opens his eyes.

It’s dark. He is sitting in the pilot’s seat of the Needle. It’s completely powered down, just as they left it, and all he can see are outlines. The NO/GO is curled up in the passenger seat next to him, knees up and arms around them, her head resting on top. When he turns towards her, her head snaps up and her eyes go wide.

When she speaks, her voice is raw. “Oh thank fuck.”

He almost laughs. Except for the fact that she sounds excessively relieved. He looks around, tries to get his bearings. “What happened?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Can you fly?” She sounds anxious. Frightened. Her eyes have not left his face.

“How did we get back here?”

“P-please.” Her teeth are chattering. The Needle is freezing. “C-can you get us out of h-here?” A shiver runs through her. “I’ll t-tell you everything, I p-promise. Just--- please?”

Her voice breaks and he realizes that she is absolutely terrified, much more than she was back at the bar. That the only reason panic has not yet driven her mad is probably the sticky. And the cold.

She looks at him with eyes frozen in fear.

He starts to nod and immediately stops. The pain it causes nearly makes him vomit. He has to close his eyes for a moment.

“Killian?” Her voice breaks on his name, and it forces him to take a deep breath and get a grip. He opens his eyes and looks into hers, wide and so, so afraid.

“I can fly.” He starts to power up the craft, reactivates the signal in his chip, starts to go through the ignition sequence. She is shaking next to him, forcing long, slow breaths.

He nods at her. “Seatbelts.”

She doesn’t move.

“Seatbelts,” he repeats, as he pulls out his own.

She still doesn’t move, just shakes her head. “I can’t.”

He turns to her, the way she’s sitting there, folded in on herself, looking like a spooked animal. 

“Swan?” He says it quietly, carefully. Deliberately uses her name.

She shakes her head again. There are tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” Still a whisper. “I really can’t.”

Very slowly and carefully he reaches out, puts a hand on her arm. She flinches hard, and then gasps.

In pain.

“Swan?” He says again. “Show me.”

  
She starts to unfold her limbs, breathing in hard, sharp breaths, and when she lowers her legs, he can see it. Red.   
All across her abdomen.

Soaking her dress.

  
“Swan,” he breathes. “What on earth---”

“Knife,” she grinds out.

He reaches up and almost rips the first aid kid from its straps, opens it with shaking fingers and pulls out a spray can and some sterile wipes.

He tries to make his voice calm. “Lift up your dress.”

She just stares at him. Her breaths are getting shallow, the sticky is definitely wearing off. Panic almost has her now.

He takes a gamble. “Emma,” he says.

She blinks slowly.

“Emma, please lift up your dress. I am trying to help you.”

Her hands move as if they belong to a different person, but she complies.

He wipes down the blood to reveal a slash across her belly. It’s not terribly deep. But it’s not shallow either, and apart from bleeding profusely, it must be hurting her. She was smart to curl up the way she did, since she had no other way to staunch the blood flow.

He sprays dermal adhesive across the wound, and it stops bleeding. Her face scrunches up, but she remains silent, lowering her dress.

She reaches for the seatbelt, winces.

He stills her hand. Waits until she looks at him. Motions to her belly. “Did you get that rescuing me?”

Again she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But she gives him a very slight nod.

And then her eyes roll up and she faints dead away.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  


The flight back to base is a blur.

His vision keeps doubling and he has to concentrate hard on not scraping the building and keeping the Needle more or less vertical, and he breathes a sigh of relief when they break through the pollution into clear night sky. When he touches down on the landing pad, it’s neither pretty nor elegant, but he doesn’t care.

Emma is still unconscious, and he can feel himself fading, but he got them back in one piece. More or less.

He got them back.

He opens the hatch and that one ground crew member whose name he always forgets pokes his head inside. Killian points at Emma and tries to say “Medic”, but it comes out garbled, and the next thing he knows, everything is quiet and white.

  


He bolts upright.

He’s in a med bay room, and it’s silent save for the steady beep of the heart monitor next to him. He yanks the clamp off the tip of his finger and listens to the beeps go haywire as he looks around for his clothes. The door is pushed open with a clang and a harried-looking nurse enters. She levels Killian with a glare as she shuts off the monitor, and then makes room for the doctor who steps up to the bed, holding a medical digisheet.

“Jones,” the doctor mumbles, “Killian, Captain.” He looks at the sheet. “Halothane vapour poisoning. Or rather, a derivative thereof.”

Killian looks at him, puzzled.

“Apologies.” The doctor shakes his head. “Captain Jones, I’m Dr Whale. It looks like you were exposed to a compound gas not unlike Halothane, and suffered hypercapnia, respiratory acidosis, mild arrhythmia and LOC.”

Killian’s eyebrows rise.

The doctor smiles. “Difficulty breathing and loss of consciousness. Nothing permanent.”

Killian nods and starts to get out of bed. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?” The doctor points towards a pile of regulation issue clothes - not the awful garments Killian wore on the mission - stacked neatly on a chair beside the cot.

“The NO/GO. The girl who came in with me.” He pulls on his pants. 

“Ah.” The doctor scrolls down the sheet. “Emma Swan? Unchipped female, early 30s?”

Killian nods.

“Lacerated abdomen, 32 stitches, multiple contusions, no vapour poisoning.” He looks up at Killian. “None of her injuries required observation, so she was put back into Holding.”

Killian stops in the middle of pulling his sweater over his head. “She _ what? _” His voice is dangerously calm. The doctor notices and takes half a step back.

“Your CO had her transferred back to Holding, I believe.”

Killian takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. “Do I have to sign a discharge form, or am I free to go, doctor?”

The doctor tells him he’s free to go and Killian is on his way out the door before Whale has finished his sentence.

  


“Not one word,” Killian growls at Will as he enters Holding.

Will takes one look at Killian’s face and simply nods as he opens the door.

“Her barcode still have my clearance?”

Will shakes his head no. “Sorry. They told me to yank all permissions when they brought her back in.”

“Verbally?”

Will groans and then nods. “Yes, damn you. Verbally.”

Killian grinds his teeth on a long, sharp exhale. And then he looks up at Will. “Scarlet, I’m going to need a favor.”

Will slumps. “I knew you were going to say that.”

Killian smirks. “Then you can take comfort in the fact that once again you are correct. Now get cracking and open her cell. I want her barcode up and running by the time I bring her out, and I do _ not _ want to have to explain myself later.”

Will shakes his head. “I swear, every single illegal thing I’ve ever done was requested by a sworn officer of the law. You lot are the worst.”

Killian stops in the doorway. “What’s that?”

Will looks at him with an innocent batting of eyelashes. “Nothing, sir. One covert set of permissions coming right up.”

Killian rolls his eyes at him. “We are not responsible for _ all _ your dips south of legit. Your creative interpretation of the rules of poker alone should attest to that.”

Will’s laughter follows him down the hall.

  
  
  
  


Emma is cold.

She’s not sure why the cells in Holding are not heated. The only explanation she has is that prisoners are not kept here for long. Or that their lives truly are worth nothing.

Or both.

Her stomach hurts, and she curls up into the fetal position, careful not to pull her stitches. At least they gave her a bathrobe along with her hospital gown. She tries to stretch it to cover her legs.

The pain comes in waves.

When she hears the cell door click open behind her, she doesn’t turn. It’s not worth the effort, and she doesn’t much care what happens, now that they’ve obviously forgotten about her pardon. If they ever intended to keep it in the first place.

A hand drops to her shoulder. It’s warm, and the touch is almost gentle.

“Hey,” comes his voice, low and careful. “Are you awake?”

She turns, slowly and cumbersomely, and there he is - looking angry and impatient and--- worried? He’s scowling like thunder. It’s completely at odds with the calm of his voice, the soft squeeze of his hand on her shoulder.

“Can you get up?”

She nods. Of course she can.

“Where are we going?” She hates how afraid her voice sounds. This is not a time to show weakness.

But his features relax at her question, and her tension lessens a fraction. It brings an unprecedented sense of relief from the pain.

“Home,” he says, and turns towards the door. She is grateful for it. His answer hits her in all the wrong places, and she can feel a moment of pure pain and dejection flit across her face before she can rein herself in.

By the time he turns back towards her, she has herself back under control, and besides - she has to concentrate on walking. Which is a lot more difficult than she anticipated.

He watches her try to stay upright, and twice he looks like he wants to reach out and steady her.

Twice he pulls his hand back at the last second.

The third time her knees actually buckle, and he groans in annoyance as he simply picks her up.

She closes her eyes and concentrates on not gasping in pain.

  


She doesn’t open her eyes until he lowers her to the couch in his apartment, gently and carefully and still completely at odds with the fury in his expression. He hands her the blanket and walks over to the window wall. Outside the first rays of sunrise pierce the darkness.

Emma wraps the blanket around her and leans back carefully. “Did I do something wrong?”

He laughs. It sounds bitter. 

“No.” He shakes his head and turns around. “You did nothing wrong.” He walks over to the sofa and sits down in the armchair next to her. “How bad is the pain?”

It’s so odd, this conversation. This entire situation.

“It’s fine,” she whispers, gritting her teeth. “Why are you mad at me?”

He laughs again, and this time it sounds helpless. Then he scrubs his face with both hands. He looks absolutely exhausted.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m grateful.” He takes a deep breath. “You saved my life down there.” He shakes his head. “You saved my life and it should be worth more than just stitching you up and throwing you back in Holding.”

He slowly leans forward and takes her hand. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Just---- thank you.”

She can feel the look he gives her down to the marrow of her bones. He wasn’t sure of her. Wasn’t sure she wouldn’t just leave him to his fate, when push came to shove, wouldn’t just save her own skin. It means something to him that she did neither. It means a lot.

She swallows hard and nods. No matter what happens now - she has done something good.

Something right.

A look of shame comes over him. “I’m so sorry you weren’t treated----” He shrugs and squeezes her fingers. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. Bringing you here was the best I could do under the circumstances.”

She nods again. It’s not his fault his superiors were bluffing with that pardon.

He gets up and comes back with another piece of adhesive, this one bearing a large red cross. He takes her wrist again, slow and unhurried.

“I know you’re in pain,” he says quietly. “I bet they gave you nothing.” He pushes the sleeve of the bathrobe back, and she can see his jaw muscles jump as he exposes her bare wrist. “There is just no excuse---” His voice is a furious hiss again, while he puts the sticky on her pulse point, rubs across it with his thumb.

The effect is almost instantaneous.

The pain just melts away and she takes her first deep breath in what feels like hours. 

“That’s better.” He almost smiles at her. His thumb is still rubbing her wrist. “You were looking awfully pale there.”

She takes a few more deep breaths, revels in the fact that she can. It feels so good.

Then he squeezes her hand and gets up. “I’ll make us something to eat,” he says quietly. “And then you have to tell me what happened down there. And how you got us out.”

  
  


-/-

  
  


He has never seen anyone eat quite like this.

She looks like she’s constantly fighting herself, at war between wanting to savor every bite, and wolfing down the largest quantity of food she can swallow in the shortest amount of time possible.

“Hey,” he says, and forces her to look up. “Take your time. I promise there’s enough. I’ll keep bringing you sandwiches until you tell me to stop. OK?”

She looks absolutely mortified.

“It’s all right.” He smiles at her. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I just wanted you to--- I don’t want you to make yourself sick. That’s all.”

She nods, slowly. Puts down her sandwich as she chews.

He smiles at her again. “Can you talk to me, though? Can you tell me what happened down there?”

She nods again.

Leans back and takes a deep breath. “That man we encountered at the bar was Walsh. But you probably guessed that.”

He had. It was a logical assumption.

“He likes to use that gas, a lot. It’s a favorite weapon of his.” She shudders. “That’s why he always wears that mesh around his neck. Always.”

“Well, it is frighteningly effective.” He thinks back to the bar. The gas took people out completely, within seconds. “How did you not----”

She shrugs. “I held my breath. I’ve seen him use it before, often. So I know exactly at what point I need to inhale and hold it. It’s been--- beneficial.”

He doesn’t want to think about what that might entail, not yet.

“Did I see you knee Walsh in the bits?”

At that she smiles. “You did. And it felt _ really _good.”

Then she tells him about the booth, and the grate, and the catwalk behind it.

And the walkway to the opposite building.

He looks her over as she pauses and takes a few more bites, because he cannot believe it.

This scrawny, browbeaten, terrified NO/GO who owes him absolutely _ nothing _ dragged and pulled and _ carried _him to safety.

He has no words.

While she sits across from him, after having been carelessly stitched back up, after having been thrown back into a freezing cell in Holding wearing nothing but a hospital gown and a bathrobe, after he came and got her and forced her to get up and walk, which she tried, she actually _ tried _ , without a shred of pain medication, she’s now sitting here, chewing happily on a fucking sandwich and smiling at him, and he just _ can’t _.

“Emma,” he says. It just slips out, her name, just like that.

She looks up in question.

He shakes his head. “Do you--- do you want more food, before you go on?”

“No, thank you. I think I’m full.” She smiles again. “Now, where was I?”

“The stairwell,” he whispers. He knows what’s coming next will end in a knife wound, and watches her smile fall.

“Right.” She shivers. “The stairwell.”

He leans forward and takes her hand. “It’s OK,” he says, and squeezes her fingers. “Just tell me.”

  
  


  
Suddenly a loud, piercing, wailing beep sounds from above the apartment door, which slides open with a whoosh and a clack. A woman in a black uniform which is far too form-fitting to be general issue enters, four agents in battle gear in tow. Emma has seen her before in Holding, briefly. This is Commander Mills.

In charge of all law enforcement in the city.

Emma feels naked. Five pairs of eyes are focused on her. All of them with cold detachment.

Then Killian rises in one smooth movement and positions himself in front of her. His shoulders are squared, his spine is rigid.

“Commander. To what do I owe the pleasure.” His voice is devoid of inflection.

“Captain Jones. You were supposed to be at debrief 30 minutes ago.” Her voice is somehow both neutral and condescending. “Instead you are in your apartment” -- the way she says ‘apartment’ makes it sound like a den of iniquity -- “with an unauthorized NO/GO.”

It’s a poison dart, that last bit. It’s a stark reminder of what she is: A person not allowed to exist in these surroundings.

Killian’s voice does not change, and his stance does not shift. “I received no orders for a debrief. And she has mission clearance. It is my perfect right to debrief her myself.”

_ She _ . He said she, in front of his commanding officer, _ she _, and not NO/GO. It’s a small thing, a tiny, minuscule thing. But it softens the sting of the poison dart.

The commander’s gaze turns to flint, and she takes a deep breath. “I am well aware of the fact that Dr Whale did not pass along the debrief orders when he discharged you. And I am also well aware that Holding never received the order to revoke your NO/GO’s mission clearance.” Her voice drops below freezing. “These two facts are the only reason I am not hauling you to the brig right now to sit out a hefty suspension.”

Emma gasps. It had never occurred to her that taking her out of Holding, taking her with him, might be dangerous for _ him _.

He must have heard her, because he turns around and nods at her briefly, encouragingly, before he looks back at his CO.

“Would you like to debrief us now?”

She nods. “That is the plan, Captain.”

“In that case,” he steps aside and points to Emma, still on the couch, “she needs some clothes.” Anger creeps into his voice. “You sent her down to Holding in a _ hospital gown _. It’s a miracle she didn’t freeze.”

Commander Mills shrugs. Almost pulls off indifference. Almost. “That was an oversight. She should have been issued standard civilian gear.”

Emma gets up and all eyes snap back to her. But she can’t talk. She doesn’t know what she could possibly say.

“Let’s go.” The commander turns around, signals the other agents, and starts to walk out. “You’ll get some clothes in interrogation.”

Emma and Killian follow her.

Killian’s hand is a feather-light touch at the small of her back.

  
  
  


“Take us through it from the beginning.”

Interrogation is no warmer than Holding. Emma is now wearing sweatpants and a henley, but she is still cold. Probably because there were no shoes in her size. But at least they gave her socks.

And Killian next to her seems to radiate heat. She has slid her chair as close to his as she dares. She does not want to get him into any more trouble.

Commander _ Regina _Mills - as she has now been formally introduced - sits on the opposite side of the table, her face back to expressionless, a digisheet in front of her.

“You have the feed from my contact lenses.” It is clear that Killian is angry, very, very angry. Underneath the forced neutrality of his voice, is a vicious bite of fury.

Regina looks to be enjoying every moment of it. “Yes, Captain. Of course we do. However,” her perfect lip quirks up, “there is quite a bit of recorded black, which means you had your eyes closed for a while.”

She makes it sound like he was taking a nap on the job.

Emma opens her mouth to tell her about the gas attack, but Killian’s hand comes down on her knee and squeezes it, hard. He doesn’t want her to speak, not yet.

Regina in turn points to the digisheet. “Halothane, I know.” She may as well have said _ cheap excuse _. “But since there are gaps in your story, I need you to start from the beginning.” She pushes a button on the table and says, “Record.” A small beep sounds in confirmation.

And so Killian tells her everything from the beginning.

Emma listens, watches Regina’s face never move a muscle.

He sticks to the facts, describes the Rabbit Hole layout and the entertainment room setup, including doorways and cameras and possible escape routes. Talks about the staircase with the armed guards. The shape of the actual bar. Strategic breach options. Possible entry points. Emma is amazed at all the things he observed and remembers.

She has spent three years walking through that place and did not notice half of the things he mentions.

Regina simply nods on occasion. Right when he gets to the encounter with Walsh, she stops him. “And so throughout the entire mission, you never actually saw Gold?”

Killian grinds his teeth. “No.”

And at that Emma looks up. “I did.”

Both heads snap to hers. Regina’s eyebrows rise nearly to her hairline. Killian’s expression is unreadable.

Regina leans forward. “Go on.” There is something eager and hungry in her eyes, and Killian’s hand under the table once again comes down on Emma’s knee and squeezes hard, almost to the point of pain-- and suddenly Emma understands.

Of course.

She smiles at Regina. “What’s it worth to you?”

Regina looks like she might implode on the spot, and Killian’s hand relaxes, pats Emma’s thigh unobtrusively.

Regina sighs. “What do you want?”

Killian answers before Emma can even draw breath. “You know what she wants. You _ promised _ her, even.”

“Please, Captain. The pardon was contingent upon a successful recon, with intel useful for a full-fledged assault mission. Not for a few half-assed observations and an unconscious agent. You can’t expect me to uphold the payment when neither one of you delivered the goods.”

“That was not the deal, and you know it.” She can feel cold fury vibrate through Killian’s entire body. “We went down into the absolute unknown, with nothing but the slimmest chance of survival, and we made it out alive, and with _ very _ useful intel.” He leans forward, his face inches from Regina’s, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I think we fulfilled our mission and then some. And I think she has earned her pardon several times over.”

He leans back again, crosses his arms, a show of indifferent nonchalance.

“And I don’t think we’ll fill you in on anything else until she gets _ something _.”

He looks at Emma briefly and smiles. In full view of his commanding officer. And it looks so very different from all the smiles before.

This one looks real. Like he means it.

Regina rolls her eyes and huffs. “I can’t give her the pardon.” She talks as if Emma weren’t in the room, doesn’t spare her a glance. “I know you’re holding out on me, but I doubt you have much in the way of workable intelligence, and I can’t promise her citizenship on the basis of hope.”

Killian starts to reply, but Regina cuts him off.

“Stand down, Captain. Here’s what I’m prepared to do. We’ll give her barcode general clearance for L8. Nothing above, do you hear me, Captain? Just L8. She can stay here for the time being.” Her gaze narrows. “And now I want a complete account of everything you saw. And I do mean _ right now _.”

Killian looks at Emma and nods.

And then smiles again.

It feels good.

  


She nods at Regina. “Gold was sitting in his booth at the bar. It’s private and hidden, so it’s no wonder Captain Jones didn’t see him. You really have to know where to look, and even then he’s hard to spot. It took me months to figure it out.” Regina waves her hand impatiently. Emma wonders why she’s not interested in something so important as the location of Gold’s private booth.

“He was getting up just as we came in.” Emma shudders slightly. She can’t tell if it’s the chill of the room or the memory. “His booth has a back exit. As far as I know it leads straight downstairs to his headquarters.”

“The room at the end of the staircase we passed?” Killian asks quietly. “The one with all the armed guards?”

Emma nods.

“Fascinating.” Regina’s voice could not be more condescending. “And utterly useless.” She quirks her eyebrow at Killian. “Well played, Captain, getting her L8 privileges for absolutely _ nothing _.” 

She turns back to Emma with a supercilious smile. “Go ahead, NO/GO. Finish your story.”

  


So Emma goes through it all again.

Walsh. The gas. The grate. The catwalk. The walkway.

_ The staircase _.

When she gets to the staircase, Killian leans forward, quietly, unobtrusively, and puts his hand on her knee again. He doesn’t squeeze it this time. Just rubs his thumb gently alongside it.

“I tried getting Killian up the stairwell, but I just--- he was too heavy.” It sounds pitiful, and it also sounds as if it was Killian’s fault somehow, and Emma hates both. She tries to look at Killian in apology, but he doesn’t turn. His face doesn’t move a muscle, but his hand remains where it is, warm and comforting.

Emma looks back at the commander. “And then Cora found me.”

It’s brief. If Emma hadn’t been watching Regina’s face, she would have missed it. Missed the commander’s eyes widen at the mention of the name ‘Cora’. She has herself back in control a fraction of a second later, but Emma has seen it.

This name means something to Commander Mills.

Something significant.

Something not at all disguised by the artificially bored voice with which she says, “And who is Cora?”

From the way Killian’s hand briefly tightens on her thigh, he has seen it, too.

“Cora used to be a regular at The Rabbit Hole.” Emma takes a deep breath and sticks to the facts. “Now she is an ageing dusthead. Dust fiend, actually. She found me in the stairwell. Found _ us _ in the stairwell.”

Emma closes her eyes and sees Cora before her, all sagging skin and pointy bones and ragged clothing, pupils the size of pinpricks, hands permanently shaking. But still that sharp gaze behind these symptoms, still the lightning-quick calculations. The way she offered to help.

And then did help.

Helped carry Killian up all the way to the Needle.

“I was just trying to figure out how to open the hatch of the Needle when Cora asked for money.” Emma opens her eyes. Regina is hanging on her every word. She doesn’t even pretend to be indifferent anymore.

“I told her I didn’t have any. She didn’t believe me and pulled a knife.”

At that, Killian’s hand squeezes her knee, tightly, and does not let go.

“I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t lying-- I had no money. And Captain Jones was unconscious, and here she was with a fucking blade the size of my forearm, and I didn’t----” She takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. “There’s no arguing logic with a dusthead on the comedown.” She looks straight at Regina. “She attacked, and to be honest, I didn’t even feel it at first. I just---” another deep breath-- “I got a hold of her shoulders and _ pushed _.”

Emma shudders hard. That sound. That sound of a frail human body tumbling down a metal stairwell.

That sound.

“She fell down the steps, and I think she knocked herself out, because she didn’t move once she hit the landing.”

“Are you sure she survived the fall?” Regina’s voice is raw. Emma hears, _ Are you sure you didn’t kill her? _

She squares her shoulders. “I didn’t go check on her, if that’s what you mean. But I’m pretty sure she survived. She’s like a cockroach. I don’t think she can be killed. People have given her up for dead so many times, and yet she’s still here.” Another deep breath. “Besides, at that point I started to feel the--- where she cut me. It started to hurt.”

Killian’s thumb starts rubbing her knee again.

“Then I tried holding up Captain Jones’ wrist to the hatch. And it opened.” She looks at him. “I was so desperate. I was so relieved when it worked.” She looks back at Regina. “And that’s it. I managed to haul him into the cockpit and climbed in after him, and closed the hatch. And then I waited for him to wake up.” She leans back, completely spent. “You know the rest.”

Killian has gone completely still.

Completely.

Regina on the other hand leans back and studies both Emma and Killian for a few long moments. Emma feels like she’s under a powerful microscope.

Finally the commander nods. “I’m amending the terms of your release, NO/GO.” Killian stiffens, but Regina won’t let him interrupt. “Your information was vague and unhelpful, as expected, but maybe it can be mined just a little more.” 

She shakes her head and gets up. “I’m releasing her into your custody, Captain. You’re relieved of duty until----” she checks her watch, “tomorrow morning at 0800. At which point I want to see you both in my office.” Her gaze narrows. “And when I say custody, Captain, I mean, to the letter. You’ll be responsible for everything she does.” She pauses for effect. “_ Everything _.”

Another pause. “Are we clear?”

Killian nods. “Yes, Commander. Perfectly clear.”

While Emma gets the feeling she has missed something big. Something of vital importance.

But she doesn’t get any time to think about it, none at all.

Regina leaves the interrogation room, and Killian pulls Emma up by the wrist, drags her behind him almost at a run - along hallways and corridors, through beeping doorways and past surprised-looking faces, and finally down a stairwell and across the plaza, her stockinged feet getting soaked on wet concrete (it has started to rain, and the sky is grey), her breath now coming in painful gasps---

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back; takes the staircase to his apartment two steps at time---

and then stops, dead in his tracks, in his living room, while the door whooshes closed behind them, and she tries hard to catch her breath.

He turns around.

His eyes are large. And shiny.

“Emma,” he whispers. “Emma, you---” He shakes his head. “You didn’t---”

He takes two steps towards her. Looks at her with those wide, shiny eyes.

“Why didn’t you leave me?” His voice is so low, she can barely make out the words. “You were free and clear. You could have just disappeared into--- why didn’t you leave me?”

She looks at him. Something is happening here, something she did not expect.

Something _ he _ did not expect.

“Would you have left me?” Her own voice is a whisper.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

She can feel the truth of this answer, but she can also feel the struggle behind it.

“I don’t think you would have.” She meets his gaze. “I don’t think you would have left me behind.” She shakes her head. “And you don’t know L3 like I do. There was no way I was going to leave you there. No way in hell.”

He looks at her. Just looks. Unblinking. Unflinching.

And then he takes another step forward and wraps his arms around her and hugs her within an inch of her life.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	5. Chapter 5

  
  


His arms around her feel so, so different from any touch she can remember, that she just melts into the embrace, and lets her tired body lean against his. When she shivers, he pulls back.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “Come here.”

He leads her into the bedroom and Emma can’t help it. Her breath catches and she stops walking, stands arrested in the doorway. He turns back, and when he sees her face, his eyes grow wide.   
“Don’t---” He shakes his head. “This is not----” 

He stops, sighs, and points to the bed. “This is for you, Emma. Just you. So you can get some sleep. I’ll be outside, in the living room.”

She smiles. It’s wan, but it’s there, and he puts a hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll talk later.” He picks up her wrist with his other hand. “You still good?” He rubs his thumb across the sticky. “You need another one?”

Emma suddenly can’t feel anything but tired -- not pain, not discomfort, not even the false modesty that would require her to insist on taking the couch while he sleeps in his own bed, because he must be absolutely beat as well. All she feels is tired, and--- safe.

Out of all the strange beds in which she has slept during the course of her life, nothing bad will happen to her in this one. Of that she is sure.

Her eyes droop and she nods towards her wrist. “I think I’m fine.”

His hand lightly brushes her arm as he drops it from her shoulder. “Then go to sleep. I’ll be out here whenever you wake up. Everything else can wait until then.”

He smiles at her, and closes the door behind him, and Emma takes off her wet socks, sinks down on the bed, pulls the cover all the way up to her ears, and falls asleep still seeing his warm smile.

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch. But he does.

When he wakes up it is dark and he is curled up under the blanket, with a crick in his neck. He mumbles “Soft lights” and three bulbs spring to life, dimmer on low, and he slowly sits up.

Yawns and stretches and then remembers his guest.

And the fact that he can never go back to calling her NO/GO.

He quietly makes his way to the bedroom and opens the door. A small part of him is afraid to find her gone. She does have clearance for the entire Level now, and she is skilled at both hiding and survival. It would be tempting for her to sneak away.

But she’s there, in his bed, buried beneath his comforter with just her face peeking out. It makes him smile.

He’s been doing that a lot.

He really should stop it, but he doesn’t really want to. It feels kind of good when he does it. It feels kind of good when she returns it.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice her wake up until she bolts upright with a low cry of surprise. Her eyes are wide and frantic as they dart around the room and finally fall on him. She exhales a long breath when they do, and her shoulders relax.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. “Are you--- did I sleep too long?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. I just woke up myself.” He looks at his watch. “I think we clocked almost nine hours. You must be hungry.”

She smiles. “I could eat.”

He grins back. “Yeah. So could I.”

  
  
  


He goes up to his favorite takeout restaurant on L10 and comes back with bags of real food. They say that there used to be very distinct types of cooking in this city, but that has not been true in decades; flavors and food types only vary very slightly from restaurant to restaurant. The reason he loves the takeout on 10 is that the chef - a stern, grey-haired, outspoken and kind-hearted soul - really knows what she’s doing. 

He unpacks rice noodles with chicken and lime-peanut sauce, and a container of soup, and a large bag of onion blossoms, and Emma’s eyes glaze over.

She looks spellbound.

“Dig in,” he says, and is treated to yet another instance of Emma trying to savor her food while inhaling it and forcing herself to slow down all at the same time. She is so focused on eating, so intent on both getting her fill and keeping herself in check, that she doesn’t notice anything around her, least of all the fact that Killian has stopped halfway through his soup and started watching her.

When she looks up, her eyes catch his, and her hand stops in mid-air, fork halfway to her mouth. Then it sinks back down slowly as tears spring to her eyes.

She looks even more mortified than she did the previous time. She looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

She looks like she’s about to cry. Over  _ food _ .

“Emma.” He leans forward and puts his hand on her knee, pats it in what he hopes is reassurance. “Please don’t--- it’s OK. Have as much as you want.”

“I’m sorry.” The first tears start to roll down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t use to--- I swear I had manners once.” She hiccups a watery laugh.

He smiles at her. Wants her to stop crying.

She wipes her eyes and shakes her head. “Thank you. For everything.”

He barks a laugh, and she looks up, startled. “Are you kidding me? You saved my life, Emma. Saved my life and got stabbed in the-- do you need more painkillers?”

She blinks at his abrupt change in topic, but then shakes her head no, and he takes her hand. “You don’t thank me for anything. Not for anything. Do you hear me?” He tightens his hand around hers. “I’m the one who is grateful. For everything.”

She smiles and her fingers squeeze back. “You called me Emma.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You keep— you  _ call _ me Emma.”

It echoes his thoughts from before. He doesn’t want to think about it, but doesn’t want to deny it either, this shift in priorities. So he nods, and keeps holding her hand, and feels the truth of this moment all the way down to his bones.

  
  
  
  
  


His face is so serious.   
He keeps squeezing her hand and taking deep breaths, and his face is so  _ serious _ . He shakes his head and smiles wistfully at himself, and Emma can almost see the battle raging behind his eyes.

But when he finally looks up, his eyes are calm. “I’m sorry I made you go down there. I didn’t know.”

Emma has to smile, because his apology is so heartfelt, and yet so useless. Of course he didn’t know. How could he have known?

She squeezes his hand back, lets him know it’s OK. And it is OK. She should be mad at him. She should be furious. But she isn’t.

Instead, worry starts to gnaw at the bottom of her stomach. She thinks of troops and flyers and heavy artillery. Thinks of Commander Mills, carelessly talking about  _ going in heavy _ , as if L3 conformed to the laws of civilization. As if there were rules.

His eyes grow alert as he watches her, and he smiles a small smile. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Emma shrugs. She’s not sure how to say any of it.

“I know something’s bothering you.” His voice is soft, and not the least bit accusatory. “Tell me what it is.”

She takes a deep breath, and then just blurts it out. “I don’t think you should attack.”

His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. 

She bites her lip. “I don’t think brute force is the way to—” She shudders. “You don’t know them like I do.”

His face is somber again, his eyes narrow, his brows drawn together. “What do you mean?” He is listening to her. He really wants to know.

“Walsh and Gold and the Dragons? People’s lives mean nothing to them, nothing at all. They’ll—- they’ll release everything they have and they won’t—“ She has to take a deep breath. “They won’t care who gets killed. Not as long as you guys end up dead.” She looks up, sees his eyes gone wide. “And you will end up dead. All of you. Without exception.”

  
  


He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just rubs her wrist, slowly. She’s not afraid of it, this touch, this piece of connection. He hasn’t set off a single one of her warning bells, not one, not the entire time they have spent together.

He is the first person in five years not to do so.

It is puzzling.

It is also so very wonderful to relax her guard, if only for this moment in time; to breathe and not have to watch her back every minute of every day. She treasures this respite, however brief it will turn out to be.

His thumb is still rubbing her wrist and she smiles.

And then, suddenly, pain lances across her abdomen and she gasps. 

“Emma?”

She tries to answer, but she can’t seem to draw a deep enough breath. The pain doesn’t abate, doesn’t release, just keeps coming. She has to squeeze her eyes shut, feels her hands curl into fists, feels his fingers withdraw from hers.

She tries to exhale, tries to focus, tries to get a grip, but by now her abdomen is on fire, pain radiating outward in waves of flame and destruction and she can’t move right, can’t breathe right, can’t----

And then it vanishes completely.

Her eyes snap open and find his, watching her, pressing a new sticky against her pulse point with his thumb.

“Emma?” His voice is soft. “Are you--- are you all right now?”

She nods. Whatever is on those adhesives is magic. She takes a deep breath and smiles.

“I’m good.”

He looks relieved, actually relieved, and rubs her wrist again, gently.

“Thanks.” She knows it’s just a word. She knows it’s not enough. But she doesn’t know how else to say all the things she can’t express.

  
  
  
  


He watches color come back into her cheeks. He knows she’s hurt worse than either Whale or Regina made out; he knows what 32 stitches mean.

He knows that knife was meant for him.

And he knows that she’s still afraid.

Not of him. For him.

_ For him _ .

On instinct he gets up, still holding her hand, and pulls her down next to him on the couch. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, because he suddenly has the overwhelming and completely irrational urge to feel her beside him, warm and real and alive.

And she lets him.

Just gets comfortable next to him, as if he wasn’t experiencing the most monumental shift of his planned-out, well-structured, orderly life into chaos and confusion.

He wants to blame their mission. The shared danger and his poison comedown and the fact that he owes her. He  _ owes _ her. He really wants to blame their mission. 

He  _ needs _ to blame their mission. 

But he can’t. 

  
  


“Why didn’t you leave this time?”

He’s been quiet for so long, she looks up in surprise. “How do you mean?”

He gives her a rather pointed look. “I know you noticed that your barcode was still active when I pulled you out of Holding. And then I fell asleep on the couch. I thought— I thought you might be gone, when I woke up.”

She looks at him, eyes narrow, once again chewing her lip. In the end she averts her eyes, and shakes her head.

“I was tired.” Her voice is low. “Really tired, and it seemed like---” Her voice cuts out, and when she goes on he can hardly make out the words. “It seemed---- safe. Safe enough. And I just wanted to…. I just wanted to sleep.” She looks up for a second, before her eyes flit away. “Where else was I going to go?”

Slowly and carefully he lets his hand drop to her shoulder and squeezes it. She’s not looking at him, but it doesn’t matter - he can tell she is listening.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says, and he keeps his own voice low. “I don’t know what Regina will ask us to do, and what she’ll give you in return.” He pulls her a little closer, and again, she lets him. “But I promise you, Emma, you are safe here, in this apartment. I promise you that.”

She doesn’t look up.

But she nods.

  
  
  
  
  


When Will shows up half an hour later, Killian’s been listening to the shower run for more than ten minutes. The door beeps and swooshes back at the same time - something Will likes to do to those he graces with his presence, because he is the resident tech genius after all.

He takes one look at Killian, lost in thought on the couch, and shakes his head. “You are in trouble, mate.” The armchair creaks as he drops himself into it and holds out a bottle to Killian. “Big trouble, from what I can tell.” Killian takes the bottle and Will smirks. “You really have no poker face at all. Whatsoever.”

Killian simply opens the bottle and takes a long, long sip.   
And another.

Will looks at him, eyebrows raised, and when Killian tries to hand back the bottle, he waves him off. “Keep it. You need it  _ much _ more than I do.” Then he leans forward and his eyes switch from mocking to serious. Killian watches the jester disappear and the friend emerge, and he is grateful for it.

Will’s voice is low and serious when he speaks again. “Talk to me. Make me understand what’s going on here.”

Killian takes another pull from the bottle. The water in the shower is still running. He shrugs, helpless, because he doesn’t understand what is happening himself. Doesn’t understand any of it.

“I can’t.” He shakes his head. “Just tell me if you can help me, Scarlet.”

“Jones, you’re an idiot. And normally I don’t care about the idiocy of other people. I’d never get anything done if I did. But you are about to ruin your life.”

Killian looks up. “I’m not. Not if you do your job right.”

Will sighs. “Oh, trust me. Nothing will be traceable,  _ nothing at all _ . But that’s not what I mean.” His face is more serious now than Killian has ever seen it. “Jones. Please see reason. I am begging you. You  _ will _ get found out. And you will pay for it with your life. Your  _ life _ .”

“My life...” Killian lets the word melt on his tongue and then drop like a stone. He looks up at Will, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Give me a reason.” Will’s voice is hard now, and brittle. “I need a reason. A real one.”

At that Killian smiles. And looks him straight in the eye. “She saved my life.” His voice is sure now, and unwavering. “Saved my life when she absolutely didn’t have to. When she would have been better off leaving me behind.”

Will whistles softly. “Does this have anything to do with the state she was in when they brought her back to Holding?”

“You know it does.” Killian doesn’t blink. “There’s not much I can do. But I can do  _ this _ .”

“All right.” Will nods and gets up. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

When the door whooshes closed behind him, Killian slowly walks over to the bathroom door. Behind which no water has been running for some time.

“Emma?” He knocks, softly. “You heard that. Didn’t you.”

The silence behind the door is deafening.

“It’s all right.” He tries to make his voice warm, reassuring. He’s not mad at her and he needs her to know it. “It’s all right,” he repeats. “Emma, please come out. Please don’t be afraid.”

The door opens slowly.

Steam billows out from behind her, and her cheeks look rosy and fresh and she’s  _ beautiful _ . He did not expect that. She’s wearing a clean pair of sweats and a towel around her head, and her eyes are clear, and honest and serious as she nods.

“You were talking about me.” Her voice is a whisper.

He nods. He has promised himself not to lie to her. Under any circumstances. “Yes. We were.”

“Why?”

He takes her hand. Squeezes it gently. “Come sit.” He points his chin at the couch. “Come sit down with me and I’ll explain everything.”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


0800 on the dot the next morning finds them both in Commander Mills’ office. Her demeanor is excessively professional, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Emma can feel unease and conflict buzzing under the commander’s skin, no matter how calm her exterior. It is not a good sign.

For anyone.

Regina points at the chairs in front of her desk, and they sit. Emma’s wrist hurts, and she tries not to rub it. Tries not to draw attention to it.

Tries not to think about it at all.

Especially since she still does not have a pair of shoes, and is sitting in front of the commander of all law enforcement forces in stockinged feet. Like she belongs at the kids’ table. It is a special brand of humiliating.

Killian next to her is a picture of professional nonchalance and she tries to copy his posture. It doesn’t quite work. But then Killian squeezes her hand, just for a brief moment while the commander turns away to open a cabinet, and Emma’s tension relaxes a fraction.

Whatever happens - he is here. 

Commander Mills spends a long time looking through various digisheets while they wait in silence. It’s a completely obvious tactic, and yet it’s effective. By the time she looks up, Emma has to consciously keep herself from squirming.

Regina looks at Killian. “I have decided not to let you lead the main assault, Captain.” 

Killian does not move a muscle. His breathing does not change. And yet Emma can feel that this sentence has hit him in a place that  _ hurts _ . Emma on the other hand feels like she’s truly exhaling for the first time since she heard about the planned breach.

Relief floods her and it feels wonderful.

“I have a different assignment for you.” She looks over at Emma. “For both of you.”

Killian nods. It is courtesy given at Absolute Zero.

“This Cora person,” the commander’s eyes do not leave Emma’s, “you said she used to be part of Gold’s entertainment, yes?”

Emma nods.

“How long ago was this?” Regina’s eyes look both hungry and calculating.

Emma shrugs. “A long time before my time. Years and years ago. She was already a dusthead myth when I got there.”

Regina smiles. It looks lethal. “So this Cora person - she could have been around Gold from the beginning.”

“It’s possible.” Next to her, Emma can feel Killian coil like a spring. 

Regina leans back. “In that case, I am assigning you both the task of going back down to L3 quietly, catching this Cora and bringing her back here. We’ll time your mission to run alongside the assault. It should provide plenty of distraction.” Her perfect fingernails tap her desk in an irregular rhythm. “If she has been around for that long, I think she’ll have valuable information. It’ll come in handy once we’ve captured Gold.”

Regina looks back at Killian. “Captain Jones, mission time for the main strike is----”

“Permission to speak, Commander?” Killian’s voice is a shard of glass. But if Regina is surprised, she does not show it.

Emma wonders how they do it, all these people she has met so far, how they keep such complete control over their emotions, how they keep their faces from moving at all. Every single person she has so far encountered on L8 has the emotional range of a robot.

Except for Killian.   
  


Commander Mills nods her permission at Killian, and he looks over at Emma. There is worry in his eyes, and Emma likes that he can’t subdue his humanity like the others.

When he speaks, though, his voice is neutral. “I am not sure a full assault is a wise idea.”

Regina’s eyebrows rise in extreme condescension. “How so?”

Killian nods at Emma, who shudders as she turns to Regina. But she has to speak. This is not about her, this is about saving lives. A lot of lives.

“Commander,” she tries hard to keep her own voice neutral, “I don’t think your troops are ready for what’s down there. I think Gold will kill you all.”

“You think a two-bit crime lord can withstand a full-fledged assault platoon?” Regina sounds absolutely incredulous. As if Emma had suggested they use slingshots instead of rifles.

Emma shakes her head. “You don’t understand.” Her voice is a whisper now. Regina looks murderous. “They will not fight fair. They have gas and weapons and no rules. Your people will die.” Her voice cuts out and she clears her throat. “Don’t do this. Don’t go.”

Regina is quiet for the longest minute of Emma’s life.

Then she exhales. “You both leave at 2230. Mission details will be on your chip by noon, Captain.” Emma’s spine stiffens and Killian opens his mouth, ready to argue, but the commander cuts him off. “Your objections are noted. Dismissed.”

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

  
  


The room is large. The walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting the very top layer of the city. It looms two storeys high, and every time she enters Regina feels dwarfed.

She walks up to the table at the very center and sits across from a blond man and a woman with close-cropped dark hair.

It is time to face the music.

“Commander Mills.” The man’s voice is professional. “We have received an anonymous tip that you forged a pardon.”

Regina rolls her eyes. Anonymous tip indeed.

“A pardon signed by us.”

The woman leans forward, looks straight at Regina. “That’s a very serious offense, Commander. We thought we’d let you explain before we make a decision.”

Regina’s eyes narrow. She does not like the Rulers, neither one of them. They are meddlesome and particular and beholden to rules. They do not know that war is not a time for rules, that battles are always fluid situations.  
They do not understand that the city _ is _ at war.

“First I’d like to know who made the accusation.”

The blond man smiles. It is not joyful. “It was anonymous, as I said before.”

Regina huffs in condescension. “Nothing is anonymous to you. There has to be a chip linked to the transmission. And I bet it leads back to Captain Jones.”

The dark-haired woman nods. “It would stand to reason. Captain Jones was in possession of the NO/GO in question. The one on the pardon.” She leans forward herself, looks squarely at the commander.

Regina finds herself taking a deep breath against her will.

“But believe me when I tell you, the tip did not come from his chip, and _ could not _have come from his chip,” the woman continues.

Regina snorts and the woman smiles. It is no more joyful than the man’s. “And the reason it could not have come from Captain Jones’ chip, Commander Mills, is that it came from yours.”

Regina sputters. All her training, all her emotional equanimity could not have prepared her for this. It’s impossible.

The man scrutinizes her with narrowed eyes. “Would you like to go further down this road, Commander Mills? Because there are two options here: You admit that you issued a tip on yourself, or you concede that your chip - _ your chip _ \- the most securely encrypted piece of hardware in the _ entire city _, was hacked.”

He raises an eyebrow.

Regina’s mind races down both of these trails for a few short moments, and then makes a decision.

“I did it.” Her voice is calm and steady. No mean feat. “I scrubbed myself.”

The man nods and simply accepts the lie. Regina is thankful for small mercies, and vows to draw and quarter whomever hacked her chip. But that is a different task, for a different day.

She still has to get out of this current mess.

The woman leans forward. “The pardon?”

Regina exhales. “I rolled the dice, I had to.” She returns the woman’s stare now, head-on. “I had a NO/GO with valuable intel. Capable of giving us a chance at a first-person recon of L3. At Gold’s presumed headquarters. She was unwilling to cooperate. And a Solo - no family, no friends, no leverage for us at all. I had to offer her something.”

The blond man nods. “So you offered her _ citizenship _?”

“Of course I did.” Regina has to stop herself from rolling her eyes again. She doesn’t have time for this. “I was never going to give it to her, so I saw no harm in bluffing. Frankly, I expected her to get our agent in for the recon, and not much more. I thought it was unlikely she return. But she did.”

“And what did you give her instead?” The man’s eyes narrow. “I assume she asked for her reward.”

“Bargained her down to temp L8 clearance, which was always the plan.” Regina shrugs. “Turns out she’s still useful. I’m sending her down on another mission with Jones. If she survives _ that,_ well--- we’ll cross that walkway when we get to it.”

“Fine.” The woman nods. “As long as you keep us informed. We won’t give you an official reprimand at this time, but let me tell you---” her voice turns hard, unyielding, “forge our signatures again, and you lose the wrist we just slapped. Is that clear?”

Regina can feel her jaw muscles contract as she inclines her head. “Perfectly clear.”

“Good.” It’s the man who speaks. “Are you still going ahead with the assault?”

Regina nods again.

“The recon you sent the girl and Captain Jones on - did it turn up any red flags? Any cautionary tales?”

Regina takes a deep breath. It’s like the two Rulers before her have a line into her office. But they don’t. Regina’s office is the cleanest room in the city. She is not bugged. She’d know if she were.

She shakes her head. “Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“In that case, good luck, Commander.” The woman gives Regina one last sharp look, and then gets up in a clear sign of dismissal. “Report back as soon as the assault is concluded.”

Regina turns to leave. “Will do.”

  
  


-/-

  


They are back on the rooftop, her rooftop, the one she climbed.

The wind has gotten stronger, the weather is dipping into fall, which means the differences in air pocket temperature are getting much more pronounced. High up above the ground this translates into gale-force gusts out by the perimeter.

Killian walks up to the rim of the building. Emma stays well behind the edge. He looks back at her, sees her trembling, and he doesn’t know if it’s in terror or cold. Probably both.

He holds out his hand. “Emma?”

She takes a step towards him, grasps his fingers.

“Are you afraid of _ heights? _” That’s impossible. She could not have made it up here with any kind of acrophobia. She couldn’t have.

Emma smiles. It’s resigned. “I am now.”

He nods. That makes sense. “I’m sorry I dragged you up here.” He pulls her closer. “It’s just--- the sensor net has a few holes on this rooftop. As you so conveniently discovered.”

Her entire face scrunches and he wants to kick himself. Nothing about her journey here, not one thing, was convenient. And she doesn’t deserve to be mocked.

“I’m sorry.”

When she looks back at him, she gives him a real smile. She knows he didn’t mean it.

“So this is the only place we can do this.”

She nods. “I know.”

Then she takes a hesitant step towards the edge. She tries to look down and immediately pulls back, breathing hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

“It didn’t--- it didn’t look this bad when I was climbing up.” Her voice shakes worse than her body does. “This is--- it’s so much worse from above.”

He pulls her all the way into his side, lets his arm drop across her trembling shoulders.

“I couldn’t believe it myself when I first looked. I didn’t think it was possible that you came up this way. I thought people would prefer death to this climb.”

She buries her face in her hands and just stands there, all her muscles rigid and coiled and vibrating. He pulls her back towards the center of the rooftop, and when she drops her hands, he has the irrational urge to touch her face.

He lifts his hand and the moment stretches. She’s still looking at him, but now her brow relaxes as his hand makes contact with her cheek, and then her eyes flutter closed. Her skin is warm and so soft, like he knew it would be, and his world microscopes down to this one point of connection.

And then the roof door bangs open, and Will strides onto the deck. Killian drops his hand, but he doesn’t step back - and neither does she.

Neither does she.

Will looks between them for a brief moment and then points at the gear bag in his hand.

“I don’t have much time, guys,” he says, his voice strained. “And this contraband is burning a hole in my pocket.” He walks over to a small space between two SAT dishes on their left. “Let’s do this.”

Emma shakes her head. “We can’t do this.”

The sigh this elicits from Will can be heard clearly across the rooftop. “Are you kidding me, princess? I have exactly no time for that.”

Killian takes Emma’s hand, and pulls her slowly towards Will. 

“Look,” he says. “It’s just the hardware for now. There’s literally nothing on it, yet. No profile, no clearances, nothing.” He stops in front of her, blocks her view of Will, who is rolling his eyes. “No one will know it’s there. If we have to go through any NO/GO doorways we can use the clicker. But Emma----” he gently puts his hands on her shoulders, “what you will have this way is a homing signal. And the only place that will be sent, the _ only _place, is my chip." He takes a deep breath, looks her straight in the eyes. "No one will know your chip exists. But I will know where you are.”

Her eyes are huge now, and shiny. “For the mission, right?” She bites her lip. “You have to know where I am for the mission?”

“Yes,” he whispers. Of course for the mission. And - just in case she gets lost. Or shafted. Or captured. Or--- “Yes, Emma. For the mission.”

He squeezes her shoulders.

“Please.”

She nods.

And then she smiles. It is uncanny how she always hears him.

She turns to Will and holds out her wrist. Will grabs her arm quite roughly and Killian has to bite his tongue not to snap at him for it. Then Will runs his thumb across her pulse point, to find the prep tracer they shot into her wrist the previous night, and Killian almost loses it right then and there.

It makes him furious, just watching Will’s finger rub her skin.

He takes a deep breath and reins himself in.

Will pulls out an injection gun. “I really hate doing this on the underside of the wrist, mate. Too much potential for damage.”

Killian growls. Emma’s head snaps up at the sound. He takes another deep breath and fixes Will with an icy stare. “Can you do it, yes or no?”

Will doesn’t look up, keeps tapping Emma’s arm. “Of course I can, mate. Now shut it.”

On this rooftop, in this precarious situation, they are not Captain and subordinate. Killian has to forcibly remind himself of that. He takes another deep breath and suddenly feels Emma’s fingers on his own.

She is holding his hand.

_ She is holding his hand. _

And when he looks at her, she smiles.

“Ah. There it is.” Will’s thumb has found the tracer, and then everything happens in the space of a few seconds. He lifts the injection gun and shoots the chip straight at the tracer, and Emma gasps.

And then she rips her hand from Killian’s, presses it to her injected wrist, and gasps again.  
And then slowly, slowly sinks to her knees, and curls in on herself.

Will starts to put away his equipment. “It’s going to hurt.”

“You think?” Killian stares daggers at him and sinks down next to Emma. He’s afraid to touch her. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she’s panting.

“Emma?” He puts his hand on her back. He hopes it’s not too much.

She shakes her head. “H-hang on a---- a s-sec.”

He looks up at Will. “Should it hurt this much?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “It’s a painful place to embed. But I hit it clean. We would have had a fountain of blood otherwise.” He crouches down to look at Emma. “She’ll be fine. I brought a sticky.”

He pulls out a red-crossed adhesive and Killian snatches it from his fingers before Will can even reach for Emma’s wrist.

“Easy there.” Will straightens back up. “Hang on.”

Killian puts the sticky on Emma’s pulse point. Her posture relaxes immediately. She exhales a long breath.

“Thank you. That’s----” she grins, “that’s much better.”

He finds himself smiling back.

And rubbing her wrist, slowly, gently.

“All right.” Will is now holding a small handheld, typing furiously. “Killian, chip in. Let’s test this.”

Killian gets up and holds his wrist to the handheld. His menu comes up, but now there is a small, inconspicuous black dot in the lower left hand corner. It looks like a glitch in the skin programming.

Will motions to the dot. “Press it. Use your thumb. It’s set to your fingerprint only.”

When Killian does so, the screen becomes a grid, with a blinking red dot.

“Standard overlay.” Will nods at the screen. “All the other options in the menu, as usual.” He points to the side, as Killian pulls up straight maps and topographic ones and finally the 3D grid.

The red dot stays in place.

“Thank you.” He smirks at Will. “Now get on the rest.”

Will grins. “You owe me, mate.”

“I do.” Killian feels exhaustion start to weigh down his shoulders.

Next to him, Emma straightens up, and looks at him.

“The rest?”

Will nods. “Yeah, princess. The whole nine yards for a life in the clouds.”

Emma turns to Killian, but he’s too tired to argue. All he feels is drained.

“Emma.” He can hear weariness in his own voice. “I know you think it’s dangerous. But--- trust me. It’s not impossible. We’ve been doing black bag chips since the beginning. Mostly for witnesses from Below. Or Special Relations.” Emma’s brow furrows again and Killian sighs. “People in high places who got out their relatives in low places. Which is a lot less ethical than giving you a chance at a decent life.”

Will turns to leave, but looks back at Killian. “Just so you know, you’ll owe me no matter what the princess decides.”

And with that he disappears through the doorway.

Killian can feel Emma’s hand slowly settle on his arm. When he looks up, her eyes are soft.

“You’re exhausted.” Her voice is warm, and full of empathy. “And I’m not going to argue with you right now.”

He nods. He is so grateful for that.

“Let’s go back to your place.” She starts to rub his arm, gently. “And sit down.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  


“David,” says the woman with the close-cropped dark hair. “David, look at this.”

The blond man walks over to her, looks at the monitor at which she is staring with wide, disbelieving eyes. His eyes move slowly down the screen and his hand comes up to cup the woman’s shoulder.

When he is done reading, he shakes his head.

“Is it possible?” He hates how small the woman’s voice sounds, so unlike the force of nature she usually is. And he hates to have to take hope away from her again.

“You know it isn’t.” He shakes his head, starts rubbing her back. “You _ know _ how many people named their daughters Emma once we had her.”

“But _ Swan? _”

“Mary Margaret.” He tries to make his voice calm and gentle. “Many, many people knew it was her middle name. L6 was a far, far cry from being decommissioned. They were practically the upper echelon then. Most people there would have known. It is very plausible that lots of little girls were named Emma Swan that year.”

“But _ just _ Emma Swan? Should there not have been a last name?”

He sighs. He really does hate having to do this to his wife. “You saw her records. You know she was adopted. Whoever left her at the orphanage probably didn’t give a last name.”

The woman slumps. “I know,” she whispers. “David, I know. I’m not an idiot.”

He kisses her, soft and warm and apologetic. “Mary Margaret Nolan,” he whispers. “No one in their right mind would ever call you an idiot. Least of all me.”

She pulls back to smile at him. “Because you know it won’t end well for you?”

He laughs. “Oh, most definitely.” He grows serious again. “I know it’s hard, this constant temptation of hope. But you have to resist it.”

She leans against him, lets him pull her close. “I know, David.” She kisses him back. “I know.”

  
  


-/-

  
  


The second time they descend in a Needle is entirely different from the first.

Killian is so tense, his flying is rigid and not at all the fluid gliding it was before. They have gone out past the perimeter this time, where the pollution is even thicker and the buildings are gaping, empty, burned-out husks with broken windows and crumbling facades. Twice Emma spots a shadow that could be a person, moving like an insect scattering away from the light.

The movement does not look entirely human.

Killian doesn’t comment, and she can’t bring herself to ask.

She has been issued standard combat gear this time. Black garments with lots of pockets made from sturdy, non-reflective fabric, tight enough to feel like part of her body, not so restrictive as to curtail her movement.

And they have finally found her a pair of shoes.

  


Something is knocking at the back of her mind, has been since that morning - a stray, unformed thought, a random piece of realization, but she can’t grasp either. So she tries to ignore both.

A wayward piece of concrete pillar, angled out and hanging by shreds of warped rebar suddenly appears out of the smog below them, and Killian nearly hits it. He swerves at the last moment, almost collides with the opposite wall of the building he’s using for cover, and it takes a few breathless moments before he has them back on a straight descent.

As soon as they’re level again, Emma takes a deep breath. “Killian. Stop.”

He throws her a confused look.

She tries to make her voice calm and collected. “Is there any way you can park us somewhere? Somewhere we won’t be discovered, or--- or disturbed?” _ Attacked. _ “I think we--- I think we need to go over the plan one more time. Figure out what we’re doing, exactly.”

He narrowly misses another piece of rebar, and says, “You know what we’re doing.”

It’s true. They do know what they’re doing. They have run through all eventualities they could think of. But Killian is so strained, and yet so distracted, that Emma is seriously worried.

A jagged piece of steel emerges from the grey smog on their left and Killian clears it by inches. _ Inches _. “Please.” Emma puts her hand on his arm, feels his tightly coiled muscles. “I don’t--- please stop.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

And then nods.

  


He parks them on the underside of a crumbling walkway not far from The Rabbit Hole. Emma waits for him to extend the clamps - one to the rusted struts above and another to the building from which the walkway extends. It is a clever hiding place, this camouflaged pocket, and she feels the tension bleed from them both.

He cuts the engine and powers down the craft and then looks at her.

“Are you scared?”

She nods. It’s the truth. And there is no point in lying to him.

“I wish I could tell you differently, but you have every right to be.” He gives her a wan smile, and pulls out a small pouch. When he opens it, she can see several different kinds of adhesives. “Give me your wrist?”

He phrases it like a question. As if it’s her choice. It’s a small thing, such a small thing, but it makes all the difference in the world. Emma smiles and holds up her arm, and watches him press the mission sticky, the one that curbs panic, to her pulse point.

“Killian.”

He looks up at her, eyes narrowed and scowling, but now she knows what it means.

“You’re afraid. Aren’t you. You’re afraid I’m right. That everyone will die.”

He doesn’t even have to answer. The truth is in the way his shoulders slump in defeat.

“There is nothing you can do about it, is there.”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

She reaches out to take his hand. He holds on to it in return like her hand is a lifeline.

They stay like that for a long time.

  


“I wonder who Cora is to Regina,” he finally says, and Emma nods. That elusive thought tickles the back of her mind again, but does not solidify.

She shrugs. “Maybe it’s like she said. Maybe she just wants all the intel on Gold she can acquire.”

Killian opens his mouth to reply and at that moment a siren goes off, ear splittingly loud, followed by the low rumble of an explosion, and then a pressure wave rocks the Needle, hard.

He’s out of his seat inside a fraction of a second and stands poised to open the hatch when she catches his arm.

“Killian.” He doesn’t look like he heard her at all. She shakes his shoulder. “_ Killian._”

“They’ve started.” He’s not looking at her, and his hand is still on the handle of the hatch.

“Stop.” She shakes his shoulder again. “Please, Killian, _ stop._” She wedges herself between him and the hatch, forces him to let go of the handle. He very slowly looks up at her.

“This is not our mission,” she whispers.

“I have to see,” he whispers back. There is desperation in his eyes. Emma is starting to realize why someone like him, with all his emotions on his sleeve, might get shafted in an organization full of robots. They do not know how to use him.

And on occasion he does become a danger to himself.

She looks up at him, eyes burning. “I know a vantage point. Somewhere you can probably see everything.” His eyes narrow. “We can go there. I can show you.”

He nods.

Her knees nearly sag in relief.

He smiles another wan smile. “Found my weak spot, didn’t you.” His voice is still a whisper.

At that Emma bristles. Just because all of the city’s law enforcement is blinded by the same lie, doesn’t mean he has to believe it’s the truth.

“The fact that you care is not a weak spot.” She says it with vehemence and he smiles that wan smile again. She shakes her head. “The fact that they don’t care _ is._”

“One of these days,” his smile turns bright and real for a moment, “one of these days, you’ll have to tell me exactly what you mean by that, Emma Swan.”

The use of her full name bolsters Emma’s confidence like nothing has in a long time. It gives her strength.

She nods at Killian. “Mask,” she says, and they both pull mesh across their faces.

Another boom sounds out, and another pressure wave rocks the Needle.

“Will she hold?” Emma looks at the walkway, worried.

Killian puts a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll hold.”

He opens the hatch and Emma starts to climb out, pulls up a rafter and wedges herself neatly between its steel and the top of the Needle. Then she closes her eyes and breathes, slowly.

She can hear the hatch close behind her, feel his body pull into the space beside her.

“You all right?” His voice is worried.  
“Fine,” she grinds out. “As long as I don’t look down.”

She takes another deep breath and opens her eyes. He’s looking at her. His eyes are very, very blue. Even in this smog. And full of concern.

She lifts her head and looks up towards the sky.

“Goggles,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Smog’s rolling in yellow and purple.” She pulls her goggles down. They are cumbersome and impair the wearer’s vision, but they are the last line of defence against some of the nastier airbornes.

He copies her movements and pulls down his own.

She turns and slowly gets up, standing on the roof of the Needle and leaning halfway against the building. Then she nods at the rafters.

“Follow me.”

  
  
  


They enter an empty stairwell across from the cracked walkway underneath which they parked. The building is clearly out of commission: the stairway dangles in places, and has actual holes in the steps. Several times they have to wait each other out while getting to a landing, because parts of the staircase will not hold two bodies.

Parts of the staircase don’t look like they would hold one.

  
She goes ahead, quiet and sure, and he follows and wonders if this, too, was part of her escape route. If this, too, is why she knows these steps so well.

They get to a door at the top, a door which is merely closed, not welded shut, and with an effort she wrenches it open.

It exits onto a roof.

Thick grey clouds roll around them in unnatural formations. This is not smog. It is gas.

She takes him by the wrist, pulls him around gaping holes and broken grates and actual concrete blocks strewn about like pebbles. He’s very careful to only step where she steps.

They get to the edge and she pulls him down next to her and peers over the lip.

All he can see are the grey clouds, tinged yellow and purple, just like she’d called it, roiling around them.

And then they lift.

There is something entirely unnatural about the way they dissipate and he sees the source of it almost right away: a drone rises out of the fog, propellers whirring and thinning it, pulling the clouds upwards and outwards until the view below has cleared. They both pull back at first, but the drone stays below them, and so they chance a look over the edge.

The sight takes his breath away.

Below is a plaza strewn with bodies. _ Full _of bodies. And not just agents. Civilians are among them, lots of them.

Most of the agents are wearing gas masks, but no goggles, which is not regulation and he wonders why they don’t. The civilians have no facial protection at all. While the agents seem to be drowsy and dazed, but moving, the regular people - men, women, and even a few children - are motionless, all of them. He cannot tell whether they are unconscious or dead.

And then the drone, sitting above the middle of the plaza, _ opens fire._

It’s not just bullets.

Nozzles open all along its side and jets of liquid spurt out, run through a nebulizer to become tiny little drops of vapor descending on everyone.

It is absolute carnage.

All he can see is bodies writhing between the bullets and the jet streams and the mist raining down on everyone, and in one terrible flash he understands the entire scope of what Emma meant when she said, _ don’t go down there._

When she told them that down here there were no rules.

When she told them, goddamnit, _ told them _they were all going to die.

The absolute arrogance, the absolute hubris of the Upper Levels, the simple assumption of superiority, is coming back to _ kill them all._

He looks on in fury and impotence as the writhing bodies start to twist and then grow stiff in impossible positions, agents and civilians alike, watches death come for all of them, watches agents shoot at the drone and then fall from the open windows of surrounding buildings as the drone returns fire, and he pulls out his gun.

She looks at him. For a long time, she looks at him. And then she nods, leans over, and yells into his ear, over the deafening noise, “Do you see the green blinking light at the top?”

He nods. Takes aim at one of the rotors.

“Hit that.”

He looks at her in surprise. “If I shoot out a rotor it’ll lose its balance and drop.”

She shakes her head. He can’t see her eyes behind the goggles, but he can imagine the look in them. She leans forward again, her mesh-covered mouth next to his ear. “Trust me.”

He looks at her for a moment longer and then puts his hands on the building’s lip to steady them, and re-focuses his aim.

He takes a deep breath, centers himself, exhales. Slows his heartbeat.

Inhales again.

“Get ready to run.” From out of the corner of his eyes he can see her nod, get her feet under her.

Exhales.

And shoots.

  


The second bullet hits the flashing green light dead center and the engine inside the drone starts to scream. The vapor jets stop immediately, and so do all of the guns save the one mounted on the bottom-- it sprays a hail of bullets as the drone slowly tilts sideways and starts to drop.

He feels Emma’s hand once again close around his wrist and guide him past all the holes and obstacles, but she doesn’t lead him to the door.

Instead she starts to run full-tilt at a protrusion behind it, and before he can question her, before he can stop her, she lets go of his hand, takes several large steps towards the low, broken lip, hits it at full stride and _ jumps._

It all goes so fast that he is in the air himself before he even realizes it.

And then he lands hard on both feet on another roof, slightly below them. The momentum carries him forward and his training kicks in, lets him roll off his shoulder and come back on his feet.

She is lying next to him, curled up in the fetal position, and panting. He can hear it through her mask.

“Emma?” 

Her breathing is labored and she looks a bit dazed - even behind the goggles. He walks over to her, tilts her face towards him. Her hand comes up to his, her movement sluggish.

“Emma? Are you all right?”

She nods slowly. Looks around and then pulls the goggles from her eyes and the mesh from her mouth, takes a few gulping breaths.

“Is it safe?” He asks, and she nods. And then tries to sit up and groans.

He pulls both the mask and the goggles off his own face and helps her straighten up and then he sees her shoulder.

A bullet has passed clean through it. An entry and an exit wound are bleeding profusely.

Her hand is clamped around her shoulder for dear life, and her breathing is becoming erratic.

“Emma,” he says, his voice as calm as he can make it. “Let me open your jacket.”

It’s like he’s back on the Needle, telling her to lift up her dress, but--- it’s different this time. Isn’t it?

He pulls his field medic kit from his left breast pocket and touches her hand, the one holding her shoulder.

“Let go,” he whispers, and she does.

He pulls off his gloves and hands one of them to her. “Bite down on this. It’ll help with the pain, until I can give you something.”

She nods, her eyes large and looking slightly in shock, and bites down hard on his glove.

“Here,” he continues, and puts her free hand on his own shoulder. “Squeeze this if you have to.”

She nods again, and he starts to unzip and peel back her jacket. The plate armor inside was pierced by the bullet with ease - although it must have slowed its velocity a great deal.

Of course they would have armor-piercing bullets. He thinks of all the undercover agents L8 has lost in the last few years. Gold and Walsh and the Dragons had plenty of opportunity to come up with ways around their specific defenses. His rage at Regina ratchets up several notches while he wills his hands to still and calmly examine the wound before him.

She grips his bicep, hard, and the muscles of her jaw jump.

It looks painful, but not life-threatening. He holds up the small field scanner, and it comes back with a pierced scapula, and nothing else. The bullet has missed both the ribs and the shoulder joint, and he breathes a sigh of relief and smiles at Emma.

He wipes away the blood and once again sprays her with dermal adhesive while she clamps her teeth around his glove and tries not to groan. Then he puts a painkiller sticky directly on the pulse point of her neck, and her jaw slackens immediately.

“That’s good,” she smiles as she pulls the glove from her mouth. His hand is loosely wrapped around her neck, his thumb strokes her jawline. All he feels is her warm skin, and the heartbeat beneath it, steady and sure.

All he sees is her smile.

It hits him like a freight train.

What she has just done.

After all the death and carnage they just witnessed, after the senseless killing of what seems to have been dozens of innocent people who just _ happened to be there _\--- he has to close his eyes.

Her hand comes up, covers his and holds on.

_ She _ showed him the way across a treacherous rooftop, _ she _ gave him a vantage point, _ she _told him how to shoot down the drone--

knowing it would give away their position, knowing they would run for their lives in a hail of bullets---

and she did it anyway, told him where to shoot, _ got shot in the process--- _

and never slowed down, never hesitated, just pulled him, pulled him---

He sees her before his inner eye, running, _ running,_ past gaping holes and concrete slabs and a hundred ways to die, and then jumping

jumping

to save them both.

She has done better than half their trained agents would have done, she has kept her head and backed him up and saved his life, again.

_ Again. _

_ Despite a bullet wound. _

He knows this is neither the time nor the place, but he’s here, he’s _ here,_ alive, with her, his hand on her warm skin, her smile in his eyes, and he pulls her close, buries his face in her neck, and breathes her in.

He can’t stop whispering _ thank you._

He has a hard time letting her go.

“We should go back,” he finally says, after decades, after lifetimes. He unwraps his arms by degrees, leans back to look at her. “Get you to a real medic. How far is the Needle from here?”

“Killian.” She squeezes his fingers. “Can you bind it?”

His brow furrows.

“My arm. Do you have fabric in your kit? Can you bind my arm to my body? So I don’t tear the wound?”

She wants to go on.  
_ She wants to go on _.

He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. And you’re hurt.”

Her eyes burn. “What’s too dangerous is coming back down here _ again._ Let’s get Cora, and then let’s----”

Her voice cuts out.

Her eyes grow huge.

“Killian.” Her voice shakes, but not in fear. “Killian, I just remembered.” She takes a deep breath. “Just now.”

His eyebrows rise in question.

“Cora. I heard her full name once. A long time ago.” He nods at her to go on. “It’s Mills. Cora Mills.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely ones - thank you so much for sticking with me for this crazy ride. It means the world to me. ❤


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a bitch to write, so i made myself feel better by shamelessly ripping off one of my favorite 'firefly' quotes. It is entirely @ohmightydevviepuu's fault. (She makes up for this by asking me impossible questions, all of which are incredibly helpful.)
> 
> And the reason you even *have* a chapter - AND a rest of this story! - is @profdanglais.  
Who is too awesome for words.  
No, really.

  
  


“Mills not an uncommon name.”

Killian’s fingers are calm and sure as he takes a piece of sling fabric from the med kit and methodically wraps it around Emma’s torso, pinning her arm against her ribs.

“Is this too tight?” His eyes are still worried and he’s very, very close. Emma shakes her head.

He ties off the fabric and gently probes the binding, watching her face for signs of discomfort. She knows there are none. The sticky holds.

He’s still so close.

“I know it’s suggestive.” He leans back and she exhales. “But let’s not get carried away with conjecture. Especially not when we need to keep our minds focused.”

She nods. He’s right.

“Emma.” He looks straight at her, his eyes burning into hers. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

She moves her torso, twists herself around as much as possible. It’s cumbersome, but there is no pain.

“I’m good.”

He sighs and gets up, then holds his hand out to her. “Then let’s do this.”

  
  


-/-

  
  
  


“Lieutenant Locksley. Come in.”

Commander Mills is an imposing figure by sheer virtue of the fact that she looks impossibly coiffed and fashionable in standard uniform gear. Robin has never seen anyone in command emphasize their grooming to this degree. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her clothes, not a smudge in her makeup. But her style is neither an emphasis on her gender nor a featuring of her looks; it is neither sexual, nor sensual, nor vain.

It is battle armor.

Robin takes a seat, and waits.

Regina pushes a button on her terminal, and every piece of electronic equipment in the room - save for the desk lamp - goes dark. A low beep sounds.

Only then does she speak. “Lieutenant. Do you know why you’re here?”

Robin looks around the dead room, dark and silent and ominous, at his watch which no longer glows and his handheld which is dark and unresponsive, and then lets his eyes wander back to the woman before him. “No, Commander Mills. But it seems to be something off the books.”

Regina nods. “Black bag. You and I are the only two people who know about this.” She looks straight at him, face wiped clean of expression save for her burning eyes. “The  _ only  _ two people. Do I make myself clear?”

“If this leaks, it wasn’t you.” Robin’s eyes have not relaxed a fraction. Neither have hers.

“Precisely. It’s good to see that reports of your intelligence have not been exaggerated. So far.”

Alarm bells go off at the back of his head, but he shuts them out. “What do you need me to do, Commander?”

“Ahhh.” She smiles. It is a baring of teeth. “It’s a delicate task. One for which I will need your complete cooperation.”

The alarm bells turn into sirens. “You’re the CO of all law enforcement. Cooperation is what you have.”

“So it is.” Her voice is silky. And dangerous. “Give me your wrist, lieutenant.” 

It is a direct order by a superior officer and so he extends his arm despite the klaxons ringing in his head. She removes a small clicker from a desk drawer, points it at his chip and presses a button. Another low beep sounds.

“There,” she lets go of his arm again. “Now your chip is linked to mine.”

Robin nearly bolts out of his chair. It is an extreme invasion of privacy. He knows that indignation and displeasure are registering even on his schooled features.

“Not all of it,” Commander Mills placates. “Not your personal records, of course, or your private archives. Just your official working life, as it were. Missions, tactical, locations, contacts.”

“You’re putting me under surveillance?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I just need to keep track of your officials, for the record. Because you will go on an undercover investigation for me. Into our own police force.”

It sounds much too cloak and dagger, and besides-- “We have Internal Affairs for that, Commander.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Oh, lieutenant, if only.” Then she leans forward. There is a spark of obsession burning in her eyes.

“Lieutenant Locksley,” she holds up her right wrist, “someone hacked my chip.” 

He can feel his eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. It’s impossible. The commander’s encryption was written specifically for her. The man who wrote it no longer lives in the city, and no one knows where he went. Some people say he was killed, some say he was farmed out to the country.

The commander lets the words sink in before she repeats them. She does have a flair for the dramatic.

“Yes, lieutenant. Someone hacked my chip. And you need to find out who.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


Logic will tell you to start any abandoned search back at the beginning.

So that is where they have decided to start.

It takes them almost an hour to make their way back to the building where they first encountered Cora - hiding in doorways and darting across walkways and catwalks; making an enormous detour around the plaza full of bodies in front of The Rabbit Hole.

This time they enter through a busted service door in the back - Emma breathing painfully hard and her teeth digging grooves into her lower lip.

When the steel door falls shut behind them, Emma slumps onto the nearest step, leans forward on her one good arm, and spends long moments catching her breath. Killian crouches down in front of her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Emma,” he says, his voice low and so, so worried. “Emma, can you make it?”

She looks up and he looks seconds away from picking her up and running her back to the Needle. She places her hand on top of his and squeezes gently.

“Give me a sec. I got this.”

He’s watching her closely again, scanning her face, and she smiles at him to tell him she’s fine, when suddenly a voice drips down from the landing above them. 

  
“My, my.” There’s a strange sound halfway between a cough and a chuckle. “What have we here.”

Killian’s entire body snaps to attention, and he’s on his feet before Emma has finished looking up. Cora comes into view at the top of the stairs, holding a gun.

In her shaking, twitching, jittery hands.

Emma can’t look anywhere but those hands.

“Oh, how I hoped you might come back for more,” Cora purrs, and slowly descends, trying to aim.

In a move that is practised and sure and faster than lightning Killian pulls a gun from his left side, and a dart with synthetic blue fletching buries itself right below Cora’s clavicle before she can even raise her own weapon halfway. Emma watches surprise spread across Cora’s features as she looks at the bushel of blue underneath her collarbone and then slowly, very slowly sinks down in a heap, unconscious.

Emma looks at Killian, who shrugs. “She was never going to listen to reason.” He gives her a small smile. “So I thought I’d take her out of commission first and ask questions later.”

Emma can’t help it. She laughs out loud.

And gets a real smile in return.

Then Killian picks Cora up in a fireman’s carry, hauls her back up the stairs, and kicks in the first splintered door past the landing. Emma follows him into an abandoned apartment, and Killian handcuffs both of Cora’s hands to the radiator underneath the window. Then he turns to Emma.

“I’m going to go and get the Needle. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” His eyes are large and he looks as if he would rather do anything but leave Emma behind.

She knows the feeling.

She does not want to be here alone.

Killian’s hand comes up to lightly rub across the sticky on her neck. “Can you watch her until then?”

Emma nods. Her voice is not working.

“Do you need another painkiller?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you sure?”

And again, she nods.

His hand moves to cup her cheek. “Please Emma. Say something.”

She clears her throat and rasps, “Hurry back.”

That is not at all what she wanted to say. She wanted to reassure him, tell him she was fine and not to worry about her, but he’s about to leave her behind in this unsecured space with a dust fiend for who knows how long, and she is afraid.

Whatever panic suppressant still sticks, it is no match for this fear.

She can feel her eyes fill with tears and she hates it. But she cannot stop it.

He strokes her cheek softly and then pulls out Cora’s gun.

“Here,” he says, and hands it to her. “If she gives you any trouble,  _ any _ trouble at all, you shoot. Is that clear?”

“Shoot her?”

“Politely.” He grins and winks at her and once again, she can do nothing but nod, mutely.

Then he pulls a small handheld from his pocket, no bigger than the palm of his hand and thin as a wafer, chips in and then pushes the bottom corner with his thumb. When the red dot appears, he looks up at Emma and smiles.

“I am not taking my eyes off you, not for a second, OK?” He’s looking at her like this is as hard for him as it is for her. “I’ll go as fast as I can, and I’ll dock at that window.” He points to the window above Cora’s huddled form. “You hold on until then, Emma. Just hold on.”

She nods again. And then he simply leans forward and presses his lips to hers.

It’s fast and intense and soft and hard and desperate and gentle all at once.

His hand winds into the hair at the back of her neck and it’s impossible and perfect and reassuring and  _ right _ , and then he pulls back and leans his forehead against hers.

He takes a long, shuddering breath.

And whispers, “I promise you, I am coming back.” He looks at her and his eyes are  _ burning _ . “You be here when I do.  _ You be here. _ ”

And then he is gone.

Emma stands there for a long, long moment.

Still feeling his hand on her skin and his lips on her own.

And everything inside her wishes he didn’t have to leave.

She looks around the room. This building was never one of luxury, even in the days of old, but this room….

It was so obviously well-loved once.

There’s a ratty, ugly, but perfectly comfortable-looking couch in the center of the room and two oversized chairs facing it, there are shelves with knick-knacks and books and picture frames, there’s a shaggy rug on the floor, and a wool blanket still thrown over the sofa backrest.

There’s at least a decade’s worth of dust on everything, but once this was a home - cozy and warm and lived in by someone who loved this place.

Someone who simply left one day and never came back.

Just like she did.

She walks over to the shelves and looks at the pictures. One face is in almost all of them - a woman with long brown hair and a wide smile. Who was she, this woman who loved actual, physical, paper books, and comfort more than style; and who managed to make a welcoming home from these walls and these floorboards?

Emma wonders if she and that woman share the same fate. Did she also watch, powerless, as her level was corrupted and supplanted and finally sacrificed? Was she also hauled out of her living room by Red Dragons and made to pick her destiny from impossible choices? 

Did she perish somewhere on the streets she used to walk free, streets which became dark and dangerous and no longer hers? Does she sometimes think back and miss her living room as much as Emma does hers?

Tears start to slowly roll down Emma's cheeks as she looks at the couch and thinks of her own, collecting the same dust on L6, thinks of the weekends she spent cross-legged in those soft cushions, drinking tea and marking her students’ homework. Curled up with a handheld, reading. Watching sitcoms on the plasma sheet, from back when they still shot sitcoms in a studio somewhere Above.

They haven’t in years. Life is no longer so funny.

That thought makes her snort half a laugh and she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders.

This nostalgia is not useful.

She turns and sits down on the floor next to the radiator, facing Cora.

Who, at that moment, slowly opens her eyes. 

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


“Scarlet, what  _ the fuck  _ have you done.”

The voice is a hiss as a fist grabs Will’s shirt front and pulls him into one of the Holding cells. A hard forearm is thrown across his jugular in a move which also neatly pins him to the wall, and Will sputters. 

Lieutenant Locksley stares at him in pure, unadulterated fury. If it weren’t exceedingly hard to breathe Will would be very impressed with the efficiency with which the lieutenant just immobilized him. He stares back at Locksley as he tries to breathe, and rolls his eyes towards the right hand corner of the ceiling. Several times. With meaning. Until Robin finally gets the message and loosens his hold.

Will groans as he takes a few deep breaths while he unobtrusively pulls a small clicker from his pocket and pushes the top button twice.

Then he looks up at the lieutenant and grins his most obnoxious grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He doesn’t even see Robin’s right fist before it knocks him out cold.

When Will swims back up to consciousness he is lying on the cot in the corner, Robin slapping his cheeks. A little harder than necessary. Will sits up groaning and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“What the fuck mate?” He turns to face Locksley, lowers his hands, and blinks. “What was that for?”

Robin in turn looks torn between remorse and exasperation, and the latter wins out.

“Damn it, Scarlet,” he hisses, “you know exactly why I am here.” He leans forward, drops his voice to a whisper. “Did you hack the commander’s chip?  _ Her fucking chip? _ ” He grips Will’s shirt front, pulls it towards him. “Have you gone mental?”

And then Will sees it. 

There is fear in the lieutenant’s eyes.

Will’s jaw nearly drops. He has never seen Locksley afraid. He’s a man with excellent training and even better instincts who suffers no fools, and Will didn’t think he was capable of fear.

It makes a small frisson of worry shoot through his gut.

But not enough to back down.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He winks at Robin. “At all. Whatsoever.”

In the space of a second Locksley pulls Will up from the cot and slams him against the opposite wall. “I have exactly no time for you to play this stupid.”

Will tries to match his gaze in defiance, but it’s a heady thing, trying to stare down the lieutenant. Especially when you’re not holding any cards.

Finally Robin loosens his fist. “This is madness.” He takes a step back. “The Commander tasked me with finding out who did it.”

Will shrugs and Robin lets go of his shirt. 

“So?” Will has never worked this hard at trying to sound unconcerned. “Make something up. You always do.”

“Will.” He can feel Robin’s sigh more than hear it. “Do you realize that what you have done is nothing,  _ nothing _ like the favors the squad boys ask you to do from time to time?”

Will nods, mutely. He has never seen Locksley this serious.

“Dammit, Scarlet, you know what my official title is.”

He nods again.

“Then you know that I am the Commander of the Covert Ops division. And you have to realize that what you have done is such a massive breach of law and ethics that I cannot protect you from it, right?”

Will nods again. The time for obfuscation has passed.

“I know,” he sighs. “Robin, I know.” 

“Fuck,” Locksley grinds out. “What on earth would compel you to do something this  _ idiotic? _ ”

Will smirks and raises an eyebrow in disdain. “I love a challenge. And there is no greater challenge in the city than her chip. None.”

“This is not a game!” Robin grips Will’s shoulders, shakes him again. “You did this for someone. Who put you up to this?”

“Can you fucking  _ stop that _ .” Will groans and puts a hand to his temple and waits for Robin to let go of him. “Nobody put me up to it. I wanted to see if I could do it.”

“Liar.” There is something new in Robin’s voice now.  _ Desperation _ .

Will doesn’t know what to make of it. But he does know how to play it. 

“Fuck off.” He grins. “I wanted to see if I could do it. I can’t resist a challenge, and you know it.” He looks at Locksley again - at the fact that they’re in a blacked out room, at the fact that Robin came here alone, at the fact that he is not in handcuffs. Will smiles. 

Robin rolls his eyes and sighs. “You’re lying,” he repeats. “But have it your way, Scarlet. I can give you 72 hours.”

Will nods. “That’s more than fair.”

“Do you need help getting out of the city? Do you know where you’re going?”

Robin wants him to flee. Will laughs out loud. 

“You think I’m turning tail?” He shakes his head. “Where would I even go -- the Farms? You know I’ll die if I have to grow vegetables for a living. Without a signal to hack in sight.” He looks straight at Robin and doesn’t blink. “I’m not leaving.”

“You’ll be arrested. And tried for treason.” Robin grabs Will’s shoulders one more time. “For  _ treason _ . That’s the  _ chair _ .”

“I know,” Will yanks himself from Robin’s grasp. “But trust me when I tell you.” He leans forward, drops his voice to a whisper. “It will not come to that. It will  _ never  _ come to that.”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  


Emma watches as Cora groans, tries to lift her hands and realizes she is handcuffed to a radiator.

And goes berserk.

She gets to her feet and starts smashing the radiator and the wall and everything within reach with her shoes while trying to pull her hands through the cuffs, and then bangs her head against the window frame with a dull-knocking sound; and it’s a cacophony of kicking and screaming and blood welling up around her wrists, while Emma yells, yells at her to stop; but Cora doesn’t listen, just keeps on thrashing, and the noise alone will alert Dragons blocks away if Emma can’t---

She pulls out Cora’s gun, holds it up, and fires a shot into the air.

The recoil nearly makes her lose her balance. Especially since one of her arms is bound across her middle.

But Cora stops flailing. And laughs. It’s high-pitched and ugly.

“Never used a gun before, have you, tricksy.” It’s said with a glee that borders on delicious and the smile which goes along with it is chilling. “Which means you’re not one of my daughter’s sheep.”

The sentence lands like a bomb, and Emma’s ears ring for a moment.

“Aaaah.” The sound is pure satisfaction. “But I see you have met my daughter.” 

Cora’s eyes narrow as she studies Emma’s face. Dust fiend or not, this woman is still very much playing with a full deck, and Emma suddenly recognizes similarities in the two faces. Regina Mills has the same nose, the same disdainful quirk of the mouth and the eyebrows, the same eye color, and the same hair. The woman in front of her is used and wilted, but she has the same arrogant bearing, the same self-assurance, the exact same way of pulling back her shoulders and lifting her chin.

It is unmistakable.

“So how is the Evil Queen of fucking Everything these days?” Cora laughs again. It sounds like a hacking cough. Emma shudders.

“And you might want to take your finger off the trigger for now, tricksy,” Cora points her chin to Emma’s hand. “Or you’ll shoot yourself in the knee.”

Emma puts the gun down next to her as if it were a live grenade.

“Much better.” Disdain drips from every one of Cora’s words. “Now let’s----”

“Commander Mills is from L3?”

“No.” Cora looks up at the interruption and shakes her head.  _ "Commander  _ Mills is from L4.” Her voice drops down to a menacing whisper.  _ "Regina  _ Mills is from L3. And I bet no one up there remembers.” Her hands start to shake a bit, but her voice remains steady. “Because that’s what you got in those days for abandoning your family and escaping Up - a place at the almighty Academy and promotions up all the ranks and finally  _ command _ \---” the meance is pure hatred now, “over the city.” 

Cora leans forward and catches Emma’s gaze with her watery eyes. “First rule of politics.” There is nothing left of her voice but a vicious hiss.  _ "Any _ politics. The one who commands the armed forces is the one in charge.”

Cora grins. It looks unhinged. “Want to know what the second rule is?”

Emma nods, fascinated against her will.

“Never take your eyes off the handcuffs.”

Cora’s hands slice up past the radiator as the cuffs fall from her wrists, while Emma tries to get up, hampered by her injured arm, and Cora launches herself at Emma, twists her around and gives her a powerful kick to the kidneys.

Emma flies and lands sprawling, face down, on her wounded shoulder, and screams. The pain goes right through the sticky, and it is excruciating.

“Hush, tricksy, you’ll attract all kinds of undesirables.” Emma wills herself to stop screaming and above her she can hear Cora’s laugh again. “Or scream. Either way, I think that’s my cue to leave.”

And then Emma hears glass splintering to her right and Killian’s voice, as cold and detached as she has ever heard it, say, “Take one more step and I will shoot you.”

“You won’t shoot me, agent. You want me alive.”

Killian’s voice drops an octave. “My mission is to retrieve you. Alive was never stipulated as a necessary condition. Now drop your gun.”

Emma tries to turn her head, but she can’t move without the pain making her nauseous. She can hear a hesitant footstep, and then a bullet buries itself into the floorboards on her left.

Killian now sounds absolutely calm. “The next one will go to your head, but please, feel free not to believe me.” 

“Fine, agent. You win.” Cora’s voice is nothing but a snarl.

“Good. Put down the gun and kick it over to me.”

Emma hears something slide across the floor, and Killian’s voice, still calm and collected. “Now, pick up the handcuffs and----” 

And then all Emma hears is a swish, and heavy boots taking two quick steps, and a scuffle of limbs, and then something heavy hitting the floorboards with a thump and a groan of pure pain.

And Killian’s voice, hard as flint, as he says, “Move and you die. Do you hear me?”

Cora gives a muffled grunt of acquiescence.

And then his arms very gently lift her up into a sitting position.

“Emma?” 

His voice could not be more different from the cold steel it held before. His hand rubs down her back and his eyes are so anxious and his shoulders are so tense, and he’s here, he is  _ here _ ,  _ he came back _ , and---

Emma can’t fight any more.

She leans forward and puts her head on his chest and  _ cries _ .


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. Are. So. Many. Plot. Lines.  
What am i doing?  
:)

The first thing she hears is his voice. He sounds angry.

Emma opens her eyes to white walls and harsh neon lights and the fact that she cannot feel her left side. She wipes her face with her right hand and Killian appears next to her. His hand slowly settles on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and not quite steady. “How are you feeling?”

“Numb.” She grins.

“Good.” He smiles back. “You’ll be fine.” Then he turns. “How long does she have to stay here?”

“We have to get one more set of vitals.” Dr Whale’s voice floats up from the doorway. Emma’s head feels fuzzy. “Then you can take her.”

“Hurry up.” Killian’s voice sounds so irate Emma has to grin again. She wants to tell Dr Whale that it’s only because he’s uncertain, or worried. But she’s so tired. 

The doctor draws blood and then Killian is back at her side. He sits down and takes her hand.

“It’s all right, Emma.” He squeezes her fingers. “Go to sleep.”

  
  


The next time she wakes up she is on his couch.

He is next to her in the armchair, reading a digisheet. When he looks up and sees her looking back at him, he smiles again.

His smiles have changed so much since she met him.

“How are you feeling now?”

Emma grins. “I feel like you’ve asked me that before.”

“That was hours ago.” His eyes are--- warm. Warm and something else Emma can’t name.

“Fine.” She tries to sit up, but he puts a hand on her arm.

“Stay.” His thumb rubs across her bicep. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Just tired.” Emma shakes her head. “How can I still be tired? All I’ve done is sleep.”

“You realize that you were shot, right?” His hand gently wraps around her fingers. His eyes grow somber. “And you keep saving my life, too.”

She grins again, this time with a wink. “Yeah, well - if I’d known you’d turn out to be this much trouble, I would have stayed back in Holding.”

His hand tightens painfully around hers, but then he laughs. Actually laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “You’re impossible.”

She chuckles. “So are you.”

Their eyes meet and he holds her gaze, honest and serious and open. His free hand moves up to her cheek, runs his knuckles down the side of her face.

“I’m incredibly grateful, you know.” he whispers. “I can’t even tell you---”

A yawn catches Emma by surprise and he chuckles.

“Sleep, Emma.” He pulls the blanket up to her neck. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” There is no part of Emma that wants to have to ask this question. And yet every part of her needs to know. Despite the fact that she knows the answer.

His fingers whisper down her jawline. “I promise.”

She knows he will, she knows he means it; and she is warm, and comfortable, and  _ safe _ , and so she closes her eyes.

  
  


The end of a dream slams Emma back to consciousness and her eyes open wide as she hears herself say, “She called me  _ tricksy _ .”

“Hey.” Killian’s face comes into view, his brow furrowed. “Are you all right? Bad dream?”

“Weird dream.” Emma wipes her eyes with her good hand and tries to hold on to the fading strands of realization. “Cora called me  _ tricksy _ . Back in the apartment, while we were waiting for you.”

“And what does that mean?”

Emma looks up. “It means she knew who I was, at least nominally. Tricksy is a short-hand term for girls in entertainment. Regular girls - the others are called floaters.” Emma shudders. “The thing is--- tricksy is a term  _ we _ use, those of us  _ in _ entertainment. Cora left long before I ever got to The Rabbit Hole. She only met me once before, in the stairwell, with you. Doing something that had nothing to do with being entertainment.” Emma looks up at Killian who is watching her with absolute concentration. “So how did she know? How did she know I was entertainment?”

“That, Emma Swan, is a very good question.” Killian is silent for a long moment, just thinking. “Did she call you tricksy the first time we were down there? In the stairwell?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“This is very, very strange. This whole mission was exceedingly strange.” He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is unsteady. “Apart from being a complete disaster.”

And then it all comes screaming back to her.

“Killian.” Her voice is not working right. “All those people----”

“I know.” He sighs. “You told us not to go. You told us.” He looks up, his eyes like storm clouds over a dark ocean. “You told us and we didn’t listen.”

At that, Emma does sit up. A jabbing pain runs down her entire left side from shoulder to pelvis, but she swallows her groan. “You did listen.” She leans forward, feels another stab of pain, and bites down hard on it. Instead she takes his hand. “You listened.  _ She _ didn’t.”

He hangs his head. “I know. But maybe I could have---”

“STOP IT.”

Killian’s head snaps up and he looks at her in wonder. 

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, don’t you  _ dare _ .” Emma squeezes his fingers, hard. “There was nothing you could have done except get yourself  _ killed _ .” The last word chokes her. “Please don’t---” She shakes her head, but the words will not come.

So she just looks at him, at the way his shoulders slump in dejection, and the way his eyes can’t hide the turmoil within them, and the way his fingers squeeze hers in return, and then she just leans forward and presses her lips to his.

His hand lets go of hers only to pull her into his lap and run up her back and his lips are soft and so, so…

It’s like a sigh, like an exhale, like a breath of relief, the way he pulls her against his body and sinks into the kiss and wraps his arm around her, until his hand strokes her shoulder and a stabbing pain runs through her, so powerful she cannot stop her gasp.

He pulls back as if burnt.

“Emma?”

“Please don’t stop.” He’s stiff as a board and looking at her like she’ll break if he breathes, when nothing could be further from the truth. She feels whole for the first time in years. Whole and undamaged and--- unafraid. And the truth is - she needs this as much as he does.

“Please, Killian.” She cups his cheek with her good hand and his eyes close as he leans into her touch. “Please don’t stop.”

  
  


He exhales a long, shuddering breath and leans forward again, brushes his lips over hers, and by all the stars in the sky she has been fortunate to see, nothing has ever felt so right. His hand comes up to slowly rub her neck and winds into her hair, while his arm circles around her waist and pulls her closer, and his mouth opens, slow and soft and----

The door buzzes.

Long. Loud. Repeatedly.

He smiles at her as he pulls back, a real, genuine smile, as soft as his eyes, and he very slowly whispers, “Sorry”, as he gets up, gently deposits her back on the couch, and goes to open the door.

A tall man with light brown hair shoulders past Killian the minute the door swooshes open, plunks into the armchair next to the sofa, and buries his face in his hands. Killian follows him and sits down on the couch, his expression puzzled. Emma just watches them both, the tense shoulders and fast breathing of the stranger, the mounting worry and fear in Killian’s face. 

Minutes pass before the man finally drops his hands and looks up. “I just got back from Holding,” he says, his voice low and strained. “I had to arrest Will.”

  
  
  
  
  


It’s funny how all the air can leave a room all at once.

Emma can feel it, can feel Killian next to her go rigid, can feel the stranger’s eyes zero in on her, can feel something heavy and sinister and utterly debilitating seep in like one of Walsh’s gas disks sprung open, while she tries to remain calm, tries to will her breathing to remain calm.

Killian leans forward and fixes the stranger with a glare.   
“Talk, Locksley,” he grinds out. “What happened?”

The stranger sighs.

“CO tasked me with finding out who hacked her chip.”

“ _ WHAT? _ ” Killian chokes. “Somebody--- somebody hacked the commander’s chip?”

“Oh come on, Jones.” The stranger’s eyes grow sharp as steel and twice as hard as they narrow. “Are you honestly going to sit here and tell me Scarlet did it to amuse himself? Really?” Menace creeps into his voice. “Will’s a fucking kid, and you know it,  _ Captain _ . There’s no way he would have done  _ this _ unless somebody put him up to it.” The stranger’s voice becomes scathing. “And who better to bring about this fucking disaster than the current ops point man and his pet NO/GO.” 

His eyes turn to Emma. 

“What did you do to Captain Jones? What did you promise him? What is your endgame?” Disdain and accusation roll at her like tidal waves. “Did Gold send you here to spread your poison? To ingratiate yourself--” the word ‘ingratiate’ is weighed down by lethal innuendo-- “and then tell us all the lies we want to hear? To trick the captain into---”

A left hook plows the stranger straight out of the armchair and lays him out flat on the floor. Emma watches as Killian crouches down next to him and very calmly says, “Keep talking. I dare you.”

The man props himself up on his elbows and looks at Killian for a long, long time. And then he smiles. 

“So I guess she’s not a spy.” He sits up slowly and Killian lets him. “You really do have a lousy poker face, Jones.”

“So I’ve been told.” Killian grins. “Now apologize to Emma.”

The man’s eyebrows rise. “Who’s Emma?”

Killian points to her.

“You’ve  _ named  _ your NO/GO?”

Emma flinches at the sheer incredulity in the stranger’s voice. 

Killian’s mouth becomes a hard line. “Keep this up and I’ll deck you again, Locksley. You know she has a name. You know they all do.”

“Yeah. Well. I was trying to---” The man looks up, subdued. “I was playing a hunch. I didn’t mean to---- I’m sorry.”

_ You’ve named your NO/GO. _ Emma shakes her head, but the words keep echoing in her ears. These words that remind her that she is nothing to these people, nothing at all. Not even a name.

She is intel to be gathered and knowledge to be exploited and none of this is real. 

_ She  _ is not real.

This is a long, long dream, one from which she’ll eventually wake up, locked in a windowless room on L3.

When a hand squeezes hers, she hardly notices.

“Emma.”

Another hand turns her face and there he is, worried and kind and everything he shouldn’t be with her. Shouldn’t be for her.

“It’s OK,” he whispers. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Is it?” The stranger’s voice cuts into their moment. “I want to believe you didn’t make him hack the most dangerous chip in the city, but you put him up to  _ something _ . I know you did. I can feel it in my gut.”

Killian’s eyes close and when he opens them back up, all she can see is determination.

“Emma.” His voice is so serious, but also, somehow, incredibly reassuring. “Can you wait here while I go talk to Will?”

She nods. This seems to be their thing. Him leaving and her nodding.

“Please, Emma.” His voice is a whisper. “Please be here when I get back.”

She nods again.

It’s all she has.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


“63 casualties, Commander, not counting civilians.” David’s voice sounds like it should be cutting glass. “Explain yourself.”

Regina looks at the Rulers, both pinning her with identical icy stares. 

“We could not possibly have known what we were up against down there.” 

A small part of Regina’s mind chooses that moment to picture the NO/GO telling her to cancel the assault, and it takes her a second to block it out. But then she looks back at her superiors in condescension. “When Captain Jones went on his recon mission, he returned with Halothane vapour poisoning. It was reasonable to assume our assault would encounter similar defense methods, and all our gas masks were outfitted accordingly. What they encountered instead was something entirely unprecedented. Not only was the gas unknown and deadly, according to all reports the vapours were released indiscriminately. It did not just kill our troops and civilians. Among the casualties were a number of Gold’s soldiers as well.”

“What reports? How many survivors were there?” Mary Margaret’s voice is devoid of inflection. If possible, her eyes are colder even than Regina’s own stare.

“The flyer pilots all survived, as well as Captain Jones and the NO/GO. Which makes a total of five.”

“The pilots were in a closed environment, so that I understand.” David’s eyes narrow. “But your captain and the woman were on the ground, as far as I know. How on earth did they survive poison our troops could not?”

“I have not yet debriefed them.” Regina is so tired of these two amateurs telling her how to do her job. “I have had more pressing matters to attend to. But if I were to venture a guess, I’d say the NO/GO augmented their masks with something she brought up from L3.”

“Ah.” Mary Margaret leans back. “Something useful she brought back from her recon assignment.”  _ Something you could have used to prevent mass slaughter. _ Her tone leaves absolutely no doubt as to what exactly she means. Regina cringes and hates herself for it.

“Now tell me, Commander,” Mary Margaret’s voice is smoother than silk, “did you at least capture the companion?”

“Yes we did.” Regina can feel her spine stiffen despite the fact that it’s already rigid. “Her name is Cora. She was part of Gold’s inner circle from the very beginning. She’s in Holding, waiting to be questioned. I wanted her to sober up a little first.”

“Take Locksley.” David nods at Regina. 

“I assure you that is not necessary.”

“He’s in charge of all covert ops and he’s a master interrogator. I’d like to get his read on the situation.” David’s eyes narrow. “That is an order, Commander. Report back here with the lieutenant when you’re done.”

With supreme effort Regina holds her tongue and nods.

Mary Margaret nods. “Dismissed.”

  
  


Regina forces herself to take measured steps as she’s leaving the room.

She calmly walks to the elevator and descends to L10. 

She calmly gets out and turns towards the nearest staircase.

One flight down she punches the wall.

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


“Fancy meeting you here.”

Will Scarlet does not much look the worse for wear, and his Holding cell is not nearly as cold as the ones for the NO/GOs. He winks at Killian as he pointedly looks up to a very specific spot in the ceiling and Killian nods discreetly.

He would not have needed the reminder. He knows Holding. He knows everything is recorded. He knows Locksley is at the main terminal outside, watching and listening live.

“Scarlet.” Killian sits down next to Will on the cot. “What’s going on?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Nothing that should concern you.”

“Are you all right?” Killian looks Will over for bruises or any sign of rough treatment, but can find none. He sighs in relief.

“I’m fine, Captain.” Will smiles at Killian as his finger starts to tap his knee. “And I’m not in any trouble.”

Killian’s brow furrows. “I can see that.”

Will shakes his head. “None that I can’t get out of.”

“Are you sure?” Killian fixes Scarlet with a hard stare, but Will does not flinch.

“Positive. Don’t worry about me.”

There is a long silence, broken only by the nervous tapping of Will’s fingers. Killian waits patiently, but Will does not talk.   
Does not move.

Finally Killian sighs. “Need anything?”

Will shakes his head slowly. “Nothing that--- oh, wait. Can you get me onion blossoms from Granny’s? I am dying for some fried food.”

Killian laughs and gets up. “I’ll see what I can do. When’s your hearing?”

“Not for a while. They’re still gathering evidence I think.” Will looks at Killian for a long moment. “I guess I’ll see you then?”

“Yes. Unless I can manage to get you onion blossoms before then.” He knocks on the cell door, which slides back with a loud beep.

He looks back at Will, reclining on the cot as if it were a lounge chair and nods.

Will raises an eyebrow and returns the nod.

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


When Killian enters his apartment once again, it is dark.

He calls for low lights and steps into the living room, only to find the couch empty. The blanket lies discarded across one arm and Emma is gone. It sends a spike of panic through him, harder than he thought possible.

He runs to his bedroom, his heart nearly beating out of his chest, and bursts through the door only to find her right there, wrapped in his comforter, fast asleep. 

He sighs and slowly makes his way over to her and sits down on the mattress. He wants to let her sleep, but he also needs to reassure himself that she’s here, and she’s all right, and it’s wreaking havoc inside him.

She opens her eyes as his weight dips down next to her. Closes them again briefly when his hand comes out to slowly rub her neck.

And then she opens them again and simply scoots back and draws back the blanket in invitation. And smiles.

There is absolutely no way he can not accept what is given in this moment. Her eyes shine and she nods as he toes off his shoes, and takes off his cargo pants, and slides in next to her.

Her hand comes back down, lets the blanket fall on them both, and they lie there, facing each other in the dim light that shines through the doorway from the living room.

His hand comes up to cup her cheek and she smiles again.

And then her hand wraps around his, pulls it down between them, and she kisses him softly, slowly. He doesn’t dare do anything other than kiss her back. He doesn’t deepen the kiss, doesn’t wrap his hand around her waist, doesn’t pull her close, because the intimacy of this moment - this moment of them lying here, together - is almost more than he can bear.

When she pulls back, she squeezes his hand.

“Sleep,” she says softly.

He kisses her again, just as slow and as soft, just to reassure himself that this is real. And then he smiles at her and closes his eyes and lets exhaustion take him.

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


“Lieutenant.” Regina’s voice is as inviting as an open grave. 

“Commander.” Robin gives her a clipped nod and an eyebrow raised in question.

“Good work catching the Hacker.” 

The commander looks thoroughly indifferent and he gets the feeling once again that Regina knew exactly who the culprit was, long before she tasked Robin with finding him.

Robin nods and waits. They’re in the maximum security wing of Holding, standing in front of an impressive solid steel door.   
“We have a Capture. Rumored to have been part of Gold’s inner circle. Right from the beginning.” Regina’s words are clipped and sharp and Robin realizes that the fact that he is here, part of this interrogation, is not the commander’s decision at all. Regina doesn’t want him here, does not want anyone here. She must have been ordered to include him.

No wonder she is livid.

“What’s our objective?”

Regina looks at him as if he had suggested they sing to the prisoner. “Your objective,  _ lieutenant _ ,” she makes it sound as if he were a lower life form, “is to observe. And give a psych assessment of the subject afterwards.”

Robin nods again, and Regina holds up her wrist. The door slides back.

Inside the cell, on a regulation cot, is what is left of what once must have been a formidable and quite beautiful woman. Her eyes are sharp and her gaze is quite lucid, but her entire body is shaking and twitching like a dusthead on the tailspin of a comedown. Her shoulders are trembling so hard, her teeth chatter.

Yet even in the throes of extreme physical withdrawal she somehow holds herself straight and rigid. She has mettle. And willpower. More than some of his soldiers. It’s impressive, actually.

As well as thoroughly useless.

No accurate psych eval could possibly be conducted with her in this condition.

He turns to Regina. “I can’t make an assessment like this. She’ll go under in 15 minutes tops, and then she’ll be unresponsive until the dust has cleared her system. 24 hours at least.”

Regina isn’t listening.

She is frozen, her eyes glued to the prisoner, who at that moment sits up even straighter and sighs.

And then smiles. Her smile is an unsettling combination of calculating and demanding and--- tender? It makes shivers run down Robin’s spine.

And then the prisoner speaks. Her voice is smoother than silk. And absolutely poisonous.   
“Regina.” Her smile grows even wider. The tenderness has disappeared - if ever it had been there to begin with. “It is so good to see you again, daughter.”

Robin chokes. 

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


He is ripped from his dreams when he feels Emma next to him bolt upright.

The first pale rays of dawn sunshine filter through the window and he can’t remember his dream, but he can still feel the warmth of it, the contentment. In it he was utterly and completely happy. A feeling he has never had.

Then he looks over at Emma and sees she is busy pulling down her t-shirt to examine her shoulder. She has her bandage ripped halfway off before he can stay her hand and stop her.

“What are you doing?”

Emma returns his questioning gaze with one of her own.

“I should be much more immobile.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “I should be in  _ pain _ .”

She shakes off his hand and rips her bandage away in one determined motion. The bullet hole is puckered skin, not even very red. Her eyes grow wide and perfectly round as she looks up at him, thoroughly confused.

“What is this?”

Killian sighs. “Do you know what nanobots are?”

“A myth people on the lower levels tell each other when they talk about Above. Something to do with healing?”

Her brow is furrowed and he smiles. “They’re not a myth. The short version is that you can inject them into any wound and they’ll do the healing for you. Stitch you back together on a molecular level.”

Emma rips her t-shirt up and looks at her belly.

The stitches are gone and the scar is a line, thin and white and innocuous.

“You injected me with robots?” Emma’s breath becomes fast and shallow and he puts a hand on hers, goes back to loosely clasping her wrist and rubbing her pulse point.

“They’re not robots. They have no AI. They have a lifespan of 36 hours, after which they get filtered out through your kidneys. And all they do is promote tissue growth and stave off infection.”

“Is this--- is this common practice up here?” Her voice is hesitant, unsure.

“For serious injuries. And different kinds of people.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. “So not common practice. More like a special circumstance.”

“Well,” he’s actually squirming, “they’re not that easy to manufacture, so we tend to only use them when---”

“You yelled at him.”

“What?” He looks at Emma, chewing on her lip, a faraway look in her eyes.

“The doctor, at the hospital. When I woke up. Your voice was so angry.” Her brow furrows again. “You told the doctor to give me the….”

“Nanobots. Yes.” He moves his hand, folds his fingers between hers. “Emma. You have given enough. Do you hear me? Enough. It was the least I could do.”

She looks at him for a long time, still biting her lip. Finally she looks down at their intertwined hands. 

“I don’t know what to say.” It’s a whisper.

He smiles again. “You don’t have to say anything. You owe us nothing. You owe  _ me  _ nothing.”

She looks up and nods.

And then leans forward and hugs him.

_ Hugs him. _

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Every society has its bottom-dwellers, and every society fears its bottom-dwellers, because they are a symbol of what happens in that society if you fail."  
\-- Bones, "The Woman in the Tunnel" --

“I need your help.”

Robin looks up as Captain Jones enters his office. He looks agitated and unhappy and Robin makes a covert gesture with his left hand, telling him to wait. To not talk. Killian nods and watches in silence as Robin pulls a wide leather bracelet from his drawer, puts it on his right arm, gets up and motions for the captain to follow him outside.

He does, without uttering a word.

Robin leads Killian in a circuitous route up deserted stairwells and little-used walkways to Granny’s on L10. Granny herself takes one look at them as they enter and motions towards a corner booth in the back, empty even though the diner itself is filled to capacity. Robin plunks down on the far bench and faces the captain, who takes in the diner, and then lowers himself slowly onto the opposite side, eyes narrowed, gaze sharp. Robin smiles.

Nobody ever accused Agent Jones of being stupid.

“Yes,” Robin says, answering Killian’s unasked question. “Everything you are thinking is most likely correct.”

“So you  _ are _ being watched.”

Ah. Right to the heart of the matter then. Robin nods. “Closely. Commander Mills tapped herself into my chip.” He sighs. “Just the ‘official side’, but—-”

Killian bursts out laughing and Robin joins in. It’s bitter and joyless and knowing. For both.

“Yeah,” Robin sighs. “I know that buys me nothing. But this does.” He holds up his wrist, twists the leather bracelet which covers his chip. “It’s lined with lead and a few other things, apparently. Will gave it to me. Said it would come in handy if ever I needed privacy.” He rolls his eyes. “If nothing else, it's proof he hacked the Commander’s chip. How else would he know she and I were connected? He never confessed, and all the evidence is still circumstantial, but the sheer amount of it—-” his voice cuts out and Robin has to swallow hard. “I had to arrest him. There was no other way.”

Killian nods, and his eyes are sincere as he says, “I know. I know you had no choice.”

This candid absolution, coming from a man he knows only in the broadest professional context, feels better than it has any right to feel, and Robin’s shoulders relax as he exhales. He knows he’s being played, has known for days now that he is just a pawn in a game of which he knows neither objective nor strategy nor prospective outcome. But whatever the game, Killian is on his side.

Or at the very least not playing against him.

Robin takes a moment to look at the captain.

Two covert ops back to back, one riddled with Halothane and the other with bullets and even deadlier poisons, have taken their toll. He looks tired and worried and a little too much on edge; his scruff a bit too long, his eyes faintly bloodshot.

His hands not quite steady.

None of these signs are overt, and he hides his tension well. But Robin did not get where he is today by being a lax observer.

And Captain Jones appears to be operating under enormous strain.

When he starts to talk, Robin can hear that strain bleed through every word.

“Why did you think it was me?” Killian’s face is serious and something else even Robin cannot identify. If they were regular Citizens, he’d think it was sadness. But they are not Citizens.

They are Law Enforcement. 

“Why did you think I told Will to hack the Commander’s chip? Why on earth would you think I would do such a thing?”

He looks truly upset now, and Robin sighs. “You and Will are friends. And by that I don’t just mean poker buddies.” He rubs his tired eyes. “Look, Captain—-”

“Killian.” Captain Jones cuts in. “I think we’re past standing on ceremony, don’t you?”

Robin has to smile. “So far past.” He holds out his hand. “Robin.”

They shake just as a waitress arrives.

  
  


“Look,” Robin repeats after the waitress has brought them their beer and they have each had a long sip. “Poker buddies are easy to come by on L8, I know that. Agents need distraction, and gambling is a perfect way to cope with both excess boredom and adrenaline, I get that. I know that’s why the XOs turn a blind eye and I also know that’s why Will is so popular.” 

Killian snorts. “It certainly isn’t because of his genial personality.”

Robin laughs out loud. “No, it certainly isn’t.” 

Then he watches Killian’s face fall. 

“I have eyes,” Robin says. “I know you and Will are kindred spirits.” He waits a beat, watches Killian’s eyes grow sharp again, assess him once more, and then decides to lay it all on the line. He is tired of being played and Killian is a potential ally. And something has to give.

He looks up, meets Killian’s gaze. “I know you are a misfit inside law enforcement, I know you were not made to function under its rules. I know Will is not at all challenged in his day job, that he is more brilliant and cunning and knowledgeable than any of his superiors know or suspect. And I know that being underestimated by everyone around you probably made for a great bond.”

Killian doesn’t move for a very long moment. And then he nods.  
It feels like a confession. Robin senses the weight of true friendship behind it.

“I never told him to hack any chips, least of all the Commander’s.” Killian’s voice is low and sincere and Robin knows he is speaking nothing but the truth. “I would never. That’s  _ suicide. _ ”

Robin can see, in that moment, that the quiet man across from him is afraid of what will happen.

To Will.

To himself.

To——

“It has also not escaped anyone’s notice how you’ve been treating your NO/GO.” Robin makes his voice as calm and neutral as possible, but Killian’s head snaps up and now there is murder in his eyes.

“Emma,” he grinds out. “Her name is Emma.”

“Thank you for proving my point.” Robin nods. “This is exactly what I meant. You have formed a bond.  _ With a NO/GO _ .” The last part he says deliberately, slowly. With emphasis.

Killian’s brows furrow and his mouth opens, most likely to shout, and Robin shakes his head. Imperceptibly.

Watches as Killian takes a deep breath and reins himself in, realizes that Robin was not baiting him, but making a point. Watches as his brow relaxes and he shakes his head at himself. No, Captain Jones is not stupid. 

“I know.” Killian’s shoulders slump. “Believe me. I know.”

“Rumors are starting to circulate.” Robin’s eyes are now glued to Killian’s face. “Stories, about how protective you are of this NO/GO, how you got her out of Holding and took her with you. To your  _ apartment _ . Carried her once, even. She is clearly becoming important to you. And people have noticed.”

Killian shrugs and lowers his eyes, but Robin can feel the battle inside him, and he suddenly feels for this man who is so obviously torn, simply by virtue of the fact that he feels empathy in a world which allows for none.

It is spectacularly unfair.

Robin waits a few long moments before he says, “She is more than just a number on a digisheet. Isn’t she.”

Killian shakes his head, his eyes still downcast.

Robin leans forward and lowers his voice. “I know you don’t know me, not really. I know that you don’t know if you can trust me. But I also know that you’re in over your head.”

Killian snorts a bitter laugh.

“I’ve had my eye on Scarlet for a while,” Robin says, after Killian remains silent. “Thought I’d recruit him into Covert Ops eventually, once he got done being all id. So I know him fairly well, talked to him many times. That’s how I got a sense of you, by the way, because you two spent a lot of time together, time during which I observed you both.”

“Great.” Killian’s voice is toneless. “I got scrubbed by association.”

“I didn’t scrub you, and you know it.” Robin can hear impatience creeping into his voice and takes a deep breath. “And I’ll tell you right here and now that it broke my fucking heart to have to arrest Will.”

At that Killian looks up. The sharp, figuring look is back, tempered by exhaustion.

He is running on empty.

“Talk to me.” Robin makes his voice calm, and quiet. “What happened?” He can see Killian squirm, actually squirm, wrestling with his own conscience and doubt. “Talk to me, and let’s figure this thing out, starting with the girl. Who is she? And why is she so important?”

Killian stares at Robin in silence for another interminable beat, and then finally shakes his head.

“She’s nobody,” he whispers. “Just a teacher from a decommissioned Level looking for a better life. But contrary to other NO/GOs we sent packing over the years, this one had valuable information. On Gold.”

Killian takes a deep breath. “Information we exploited. Because we can, because we are the good guys.”

The bitterness in his words is lethal.

“And she did every single thing we asked of her - every single thing  _ I _ asked of her. Even though we promised her nothing.  _ Nothing _ . Even though she was terrified, even though she didn’t have to, and then she saved my life—-” His eyes meet Robin’s in pure despair. “Twice. She saved my life  _ twice _ . And it’s insane, because I’ve only known her for a few days, and yet it’s like…”

His voice trails off and Robin sees him,  _ sees _ Killian, for the conflicted and decent human being he is.

Killian, however, rolls his eyes and then seems to come to a decision. “Damn it all, she’s fucking  _ part of me _ .” He barks a watery laugh. “I don’t know how on earth this happened.” 

He looks up at Robin and sighs. “But I know that I don’t want it to stop.”

Robin exhales and leans back.

They are both quiet for a long time.

Finally Robin clears his throat. “I didn’t know she’d saved your life.”

Killian shrugs and Robin waits another beat before he goes on. “I looked her up. Checked her clearance. She never rated above limited L8, and now I wonder if this is how Will fits into this puzzle.” Robin takes a few seconds to run scenarios in his head, and gets an awful, sneaking suspicion. “You care for this girl, and you’re good friends with Will, and you have a reputation for being—-”

“Reckless?”

Robin rolls his eyes. “Untamed.”

Killian laughs out loud. “That’s a gorgeous official euphemism for ‘unable to play by the rules’.”

Robin catches himself truly liking Killian. Not just as a potential ally. As a person. It makes what he has to say next much harder.

“I think you’ll be tempted to do something stupid. Like chip her illegally.”

Killian’s face doesn’t move, not one muscle, and yet, somehow, it’s all there.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Robin leans forward, drops his voice to just above audible. “Killian. You  _ didn’t _ .”

Killian’s face still doesn’t move and Robin resists the urge to reach across the table and shake him till he  _ rattles _ .

“You fucking chipped her already. Do you even know what you have done? That’s the chair, Killian.  _ The chair _ .”

Killian’s voice is possibly even lower than Robin’s. “You are not the first person to point this out to me.”

The urge to shake him becomes overwhelming. 

“It gets more complicated.” Killian’s voice is barely a breath now. “Will gave me a message.”

Robin can’t help it. He laughs. It sounds helpless. “I knew the onion blossoms were code for something.”

“No they weren’t.” Killian chuckles and leans back. “They were just a diversion. And Will letting me know that he’s all right.”

Robin raises an eyebrow in question.

“We used to come up here for onion blossoms after especially hard missions. Or especially hard nights of drinking and poker.” He smirks. Robin can see the pain behind it. He knows what ‘hard missions’ means. “So that really was Will just letting me know he’s OK.” Killian’s smirk turns into a grin, a real one. “And giving me an opportunity to come see him again, in case I needed to talk. Without raising suspicion.”

Robin shakes his head. “So what was the code?”

Killian looks him over in barely concealed amusement. 

“And you call yourself the Head Of Covert Ops. When you missed the real message entirely.” He leans forward once more, lowers his voice once again to a whisper. “Morse code, Robin. Tapped against his knee.”

Robin wants to slap himself. Hard. He had seen Will’s fingers tap and not paid attention - intent as he was, trying to crack the code words he was convinced they were using. Some agent he is. 

“And that’s why I’m here,” Killian goes on. “Will’s message. That is why I need your help.”

Robin gets up to nod at Granny. She points her chin up.

“Come with me.” Robin looks back at Killian and slides out of the booth. “This is not a conversation for a diner booth, no matter how private the diner. Or the booth.” He allows himself a small smile. “I have a secret office upstairs. And I think you have more than earned your admission.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  


Two Levels above Granny’s diner, in the large room with the enormous windows, the blond man and his wife look at each other in silence.

It is the man who breaks it in the end.

“Mary Margaret,” he finally says, “you know this was not your fault. You know that.”

She shakes her head. “Wasn’t it? We greenlit the op. We told Regina she could take two scores of agents and assault a Level about which we knew nothing.”

He takes her hand. “Not nothing. Commander Mills had intel. She had a NO/GO from the Level in question. She had recon reports from one of her own operatives.”

“Intel.” The woman laughs. It sounds nothing but dejected. “All this information we supposedly had, all this calling for decisive action, for using this  _ narrow window of opportunity _ , where did it get our agents in the end? Except dead?”

“Mary Margaret.” The man’s voice is firm now. “What’s this about? You’ve made harder decisions, we both have.”

She shakes her head again, and then sighs. It takes her long moments to answer. “It’s that damn report. It’s driving me crazy.”

“What report—— oh.” The man takes her hand in both of his now. “The name of the NO/GO? Her circumstance?”

“Please don’t say it, David. Just don’t.” The woman’s eyes grow shiny for a moment and she clears her throat several times. “I know it’s silly and I know it’s futile and I know it’s nothing but a coincidence, but it’s driving me nuts. It feels like the past 30 years have been nothing but a very bad dream, and for the first time in decades, I want to  _ wake up _ .”

The man says nothing.

But he pulls the woman close, hugs her harder than he has in years, and kisses the top of her head. “I know,” he whispers. “Mary Margaret, I know.”

She shudders.

He just holds her more tightly.

A loud buzzing noise makes them break apart on the spot, without missing a beat, looking nothing but composed as the doors slide back to admit Commander Mills.

  
  
  


Regina can read a room, and this room reads exceedingly unwelcoming. She bites back a long-suffering sigh and reminds herself to play nice with the Rulers, with these people playing at being in charge, who know nothing at all about what it takes to keep a Level clean and functioning and undisturbed.

But for now she must placate these two, must maintain their delusions of command. And that includes coming when summoned. 

Regina is playing a very long game. Catering to the people above her is part of it.

Mary Margaret nods in greeting with the most minuscule inclination a head has ever tilted. David merely blinks. Regina herself salutes, as is required, and only barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes.

“Commander.” David’s voice is brusque and impatient. “You’ve had the companion for more than 24 hours now, and still we have no reports, either from you, or Lieutenant Locksley.”

Regina cannot stop herself from quirking an eyebrow in condescension. Imbeciles, the both of them.

“Sir,” she says, trying for neutral, “the companion is a dust fiend. Coherent conversation was impossible while she was coming down.”

“And now?” Mary Margaret’s voice makes it very clear that any kind of stalling on Regina’s part will not be tolerated. Regina has somewhat more respect for Mary Margaret than she does for David, because she senses a spine of real steel in the woman across from her, one which will not bend.

“We are questioning her,” Regina acquiesces. “It looks like she has enough information to allow us more action against Gold. Effective action.”

David smirks. “What does she want in return?”

Regina sighs. “What they all want, of course. A life up here.”

“Give it to her.” Mary Margaret’s voice brooks no argument, and she ignores the surprised looks from both Regina and David. “Give her everything she wants. But -- ” her voice becomes sharper than a scalpel— “make it contingent on the veracity of her information. She gets the good life only if her story checks out.”

“That was the plan,” Regina says, but Mary Margaret cuts her off.

“You don’t understand, Commander. I’m not talking about long, drawn-out intel-gathering sessions and new battle plans.” She looks at David for a long moment, and then Regina sees him nod. “I’m not risking another assault, and I don’t want to give Gold the time to regroup. I want you to pull every last bit of useful information from that woman  _ tonight _ , and then I want a quiet, covert mission. Carried out by the operative of your choice and the NO/GO. The objective of which is to remove Gold and Walsh from the equation. Permanently.”

Regina grinds her teeth while she does some quick calculations in her head. But much as she hates being told what to do, she can’t refuse this direct order.

Nor can she obfuscate nor prevaricate. The mission is clear.

And convenient.

“Understood.” Regina inclines her own head a fraction. Two salutes are entirely unnecessary. “Permission to resume interrogation?”

  
  


Mary Margaret’s “Dismissed!” is a hiss of cold air, and she watches as Commander Mills exits the chamber.

Then she slowly turns to her husband. “Am I making a mistake?” There is doubt in her voice.

Doubt and guilt and the old pain of loss.

He leans over and very gently strokes her cheek, once. His voice is soft when he answers, soft, but firm. “No, my love. I think you are taking the only sensible course of action.” He straightens back up. “The only one.”

She smiles, holds up her wrist to a wall terminal, and pushes a few buttons.

The blond man looks over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

The woman smiles again, and this time it is all calculated anticipation. “I think it’s high time we talked to Lieutenant Locksley.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


Emma is in the middle of her second sandwich, and he can see the strain in how rigid her spine is, how deliberate her movement. She has been putting each sandwich down completely on her plate, both hands off, until she’s finished chewing, and only then picking it up again.

She hasn’t listened to a word he has said.

When she gets done and looks up, he offers her another and she shakes her head. And only then seems to realize that time has passed, lots of time. She bites her lip and he hates how guilty she looks, how ashamed. Her teeth are digging grooves into her skin and he runs his thumb across her chin. 

“Stop that,” he whispers. Her face relaxes a fraction, but her eyes remain downcast. 

  
  


“It was a sport.”

She just blurts it out, sudden and sharp, and when she looks up she seems surprised by her own outburst. She shakes her head, tries to take a deep breath, and it sounds like a sob.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Emma. Please don’t--- you don’t have to be sorry.” He lets his hand run down her arm until it covers hers, clasped tightly in her lap. 

She looks like a coiled spring. Tension is nearly making her vibrate. 

He squeezes her fingers. “What was a sport?”

Tears spring to her eyes. She takes another shuddering breath and then it comes at him in a rush.

“Feeding time. Walsh came up with it. It brought in lots of cash.” She chuckles. It’s a terrible sound. “They cleared out the tables of the bar once a day and put food on the floor, in troughs and trays and buckets. And then they let loose all us girls, all at once. All the regulars.” Tears are starting to fall and her voice becomes hoarse, and desperate. “There wasn’t nearly enough for everyone, we had to fight for our share. And the Dragons and the dust runners and the Golden Circle, they all sat in the booths and watched. They made bets on us. It was big business.”

Her eyes are fixed on a point over his left shoulder. He has a hard time breathing. He remembers her medical records from when she first came to Holding. All the evidence of abuse.

“Fighting for food is--- primal.” Her voice is still hoarse, but now it’s detached. It sounds like she’s talking about somebody else. “It’s funny—” he can’t see a single funny thing about it— “you can tell yourself you won’t do it, that you won’t stoop to that level, that you won’t let them make you into an animal for fucking  _ sport _ , but you get hungry enough, you fight.” 

She exhales a long breath that ends in a bitter laugh. “In the end it doesn’t matter that you are friends with these girls, that they are just as hungry as you, just as trapped by circumstance as you. That you need each other outside that room. None of it matters. In the end, you do fight.” Her voice trails off, quiet and sad. “In the end, you do.”

She looks at him, ashamed.

_ Ashamed _ .

  
  


Rage such as he has never known, ever, floods his system and blinds him for a moment. 

He wants to run down to L3 at a sprint and kill every last piece of filth that sat around that bar, watching human beings fight for sustenance. 

For survival. 

For the entertainment of others. The  _ gain  _ of others.

He wants to break their necks with his bare hands, watch the shocked pain on their faces, punish them for the utter degradation, the depravity, the indignity of---

His eyes snap open wide.

By all the stars in the sky, they are no different up here.

They call them NO/GOs, these people, these  _ people _ , who dare to try and escape that fate. 

They call them NO/GOs, as if they’re not human, as if being born on the wrong fucking Level is somehow their  _ fault _ . 

They call them NO/GOs and send them back Down, or give them the needle, for the cardinal sin of wanting to live.

Up here, Above, is no different at all.

  
  
  


“Emma.” His voice is a whisper. “Emma, I...”

He can’t finish. He doesn’t have the words for what he wants to say. There is nothing he  _ can  _ say that won’t sound trite and inadequate. 

He runs shaking fingers down the scar on her face, and this moment is suddenly so much bigger than him,

so much bigger than  _ them _ \---

She quirks a smile, guilty, self-deprecating.

Apologetic. When the last thing he needs is her to feel sorry for anything. _Anything._

With a choked groan he pulls her against him, wraps her up as tightly as he dares, and promises himself that no matter what happens,  _ no matter what happens _ , Emma Swan’s life will get better from now on.

His arms shake as they tighten around her.

She pulls back a tiny little bit, just enough to look up at him, and he can feel it, can feel  _ her _ , 

as a living, breathing part of him, 

as the proverbial fucking heartbeat inside of him, beating alongside his own---

and he bends down to kiss her.

Can’t  _ not _ kiss her.

Their connection goes live with a roar of something primal, a spark of recognition, a rush of blood, pounding in his ears, and it melds them together, says all the things for which he can’t find the words, and she responds—-

she responds---

She kisses him back like she is the driftwood and he is the lifeline, runs her hands up his back, up his neck, into his hair; runs her fingers down his cheek, reads him like Braille, as he opens his mouth

parts her lips slowly

swallows her low moan, her long sigh, her deep breath

and tastes her for the very first time.

  
  
  


A loud beep rings through the apartment, and the door doesn’t wait, just swooshes open, and Killian comes up with a curse on his lips—- 

Only to find himself face to face with Commander Mills.

Who looks murderous.

“Captain Jones.” Regina’s voice is devoid of emotion. Which means she is beyond fury. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Killian feels Emma trying to pull back and simply holds on to her. He will not cower, not for this. Never for this. Instead he nods.

“Commander.” His voice is steady, and Emma has stopped squirming. He keeps one hand around her waist as he turns to Regina. “What can I do for you?”

The door whooshes shut behind Commander Mills as she walks past them to take a seat on Killian’s arm chair. As if she owned the place. “Come sit.” She waves an imperious hand at both. “I have a proposition for you.”

  
  
  


Emma lets Killian pull her towards the sofa and down next to him. It feels surreal, all of it.

Everything since Killian got her out of Holding has been incongruous, bordering on the absurd, but the most disparate thing of all is Killian himself. The way he remains at her center, steady as bedrock; real and unwavering and—- 

She feels their connection like a physical entity, like a stream of energy arcing between them, and she can no longer fight it.

Doesn’t want to fight it.

Wants to keep it, this amazing, incredible, wonderful thing that has happened to her miserable, hopeless existence. Wants to stay inside this beautiful feeling, whatever it is, with him.

_ With him _ .

“Out of the question.” She feels Killian’s chest vibrate as he speaks next to her, and realizes she has missed part of the conversation.

“Send me back Down all you want. But not Emma.”

She looks at him, at the way his eyes are narrowed and his brows drawn, at the way Commander Mills’ face conveys nothing and yet looks livid, somehow.

“May I remind you, Captain, that your NO/GO has no rights up here, save those we grant her? If we order her to go Down with you, Down she goes.”

Emma feels Killian’s arm tighten almost painfully around her, and puts a hand on his leg. He takes a deep breath and looks at her.

“Emma.” His eyes are large and earnest. “You are never going back down there. I am not coming back with pieces of you.” 

Warmth spreads inside her, with promise, with  _ hope _ .

“Killian.” She turns to meet his gaze head-on. “You are not going Down by yourself.  _ Ever _ .”

He opens his mouth to protest when Regina speaks.

“It is quite simply not up to you, Captain. You can go on this mission with the NO/GO—-” Emma watches as Killian nearly bites the tip of his tongue off— “or you can go to the brig while I send somebody else Down with her.” Regina leans forward. “Now, which one will it be?”

Emma has not seen many storm clouds in her life, but she has read about them in many, many books. None of them could possibly compare to what’s happening in Killian’s eyes as she watches a war raging behind them, feels his body next to her tighten like a suspension wire - his spine rigid, his shoulders stiff -, as he finally nods. 

“Very well, Commander.” His voice sounds strained to the breaking point. “What is the mission?”

Regina smiles a supercilious smile that borders on triumphant and makes Emma’s hair stand on end in warning.

“Black bag,” she says. “Just you and the NO/GO. Go back to L3 and eliminate Walsh and Gold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.  
All of you.
> 
> And @profdanglais - without you there would just be _Words_. Because of you there is _Story_.


	10. Chapter 10

  
  


After the door slides shut behind Regina they remain on the couch, unmoving, except for Killian’s arm, which wraps around Emma and pulls her closer. His jaw keeps clenching, and his eyes keep closing only to snap back open. He looks so worried. 

Emma doesn’t want him to worry, least of all about her.

That way distraction, that way  _ disaster _ lies.

She puts her head on his chest, hears his galloping heartbeat. Feels his warmth, too, and his strength, and his steadfastness. Finally she hears him chuckle helplessly and then he shakes his head.

“I don’t know what to do.”

She knows what he means. She doesn’t want to go Down  _ again _ . And she doesn’t want Killian anywhere near L3 either.

It’s not that she doubts his skills or his training - she has seen both in action and they will hold up fine. The way he subdued Cora alone was an exercise in practised efficiency. But she knows, oh - she knows - that at the core of his being he is simply too decent. That he will not resort to the type of tactics his opponents will use. That he will try to fight  _ fair _ , whatever the fight may be.

It will be his undoing.

She will have to fight dirty for him.

And she will bring him back Up alive, if it’s the last thing she ever does.

She looks up and his eyes are large and sad and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to have to do this.” He leans down to kiss her shoulder. It’s a completely unconscious gesture, and it feels strangely familiar. As if touch has always been part of their language.

“How are you feeling?” His voice is low as he nuzzles her neck. “Are you still in pain?”

“I’m all right now.” She shivers for a moment, and he pulls back to look at her, his eyes sharp, and so she smiles. “I’m healed, thanks to you.”

His eyes drop down, and his hand slowly pulls up her shirt, just enough to look at the thin white scar across her abdomen. He lets go of the hem and runs his fingertips across the line.

“We could leave,” he whispers. “Just--- I could hijack a flyer. We could just--- go.”

“Go where?”

“The Farms. Past no man’s land. Or further even. They say there are woods out there, and rivers and streams. They say nature is reclaiming her territory. Healing itself, taking back what was destroyed.”

She shakes her head. It sounds so tempting.

So impossible.

“Do you know anything about--- about survival in the wild? I think--- I don’t think it’s easy, you know. I’ve never been anywhere in nature.” She pauses. “Have you?”

His voice is wistful as he answers, “We could learn.”

She smiles. “Not by tonight, I don’t think,” and his shoulders sag, defeated.

“Killian.” She pulls back and sits up to face him. “I want to. I want to get out. I really do.” She puts both hands on his chest, and his immediately rise to cover them with his own. “I want nothing more than to--- This whole----” her hand sweeps the room, the large window, the city behind it, “everything is loud and scary and--- and  _ complicated _ .” He looks at her, nods. He is listening, really listening. “And I would love---” her voice catches, “to go somewhere quiet, with you.  _ With you _ .”

She has never meant anything as much as she means this.

“But we--- Killian, we can’t. They would--- they would find us, they would execute us.” His fingers tighten around her hands. “I don’t want to do this, not any of it, believe me. I don’t want  _ you  _ to do it.” She takes a deep breath. “But it’s---- I think it’s the only choice we have. And I,” she huffs, “I know all about impossible choices.”

Killian barks a laugh, helpless and knowing and resigned, and then he cups her cheek. 

“You would know,” he whispers. 

And then he leans forward.

When his lips touch hers the connection Emma felt before explodes all at once. His lips are gentle and hesitant and it’s not what she wants

not what she needs

not anymore---

She moans and opens her mouth and  _ tastes  _ him, explores him, and he lets her, kisses her back like he’s  _ hungry _ . Her hands wander up and down his body, because she’s trying to touch everywhere at once, and his tear paths of fire down her back and up her arms and finally wind into her hair, 

and then she climbs across him to sit in his lap and she feels him.

_ Feels him _ .

Rock hard and straining and so,  _ so _ ready.

He groans, helpless, at the friction of her movement, and his hands still.

“Emma?” It’s broken and needy and yet he stills. Completely.

It’s unprecedented.

She looks up at him, at his swollen red lips and his nearly black eyes. At how he’s trying so very hard to calm his breathing, relax his posture, unclench his hands. 

She looks up and sees that he  _ is _ in control, no matter how much it is costing him, in total control of his actions.

He will not take without asking.

He will wait for her to  _ give _ .

She doesn’t speak.

The time for words has passed.

Instead she gets up and takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom, and when she turns around he wraps his arms around her, somehow wraps himself around her, and she feels -- cherished. Important. He is careful with her.

Because she matters. She matters to him. Her life is worth nothing up here, worth not even a name, but she matters to him.

She looks up and feels their connection pulse along with her racing heart, and knows that the warmth that spreads inside her is deeper and greater than anything that has come before. He is more than the sum of her broken parts, more than the shreds of her past and the ruin of her present. He is part of her future. 

The part that matters. 

He picks her up and puts her down on the bed, and simply lies down beside her. His hand wanders down her shoulder to her chest, gently cups around a breast, while he leans forward and kisses her again, so so  _ so _ slowly.

He pulls back and props himself up on one elbow while his hand keeps exploring, runs down her body like it’s precious, like it’s  _ new _ . He looks at her like she’s the only thing in this wretched world worth seeing, and his hand brushes down her side like she’s the only thing worth touching.

She takes a deep breath and leans into his touch.

And lets his hand  _ remake _ her, 

erase her past,

with the tips of his fingers and the soft caress of his palm and the utter and complete reverence with which he explores her---- 

And here, in this room, she reclaims herself.

Here, in this room, she is virgin territory, and he is the first to land on her shores.

He takes off her clothes painfully slowly, as if she is a treasure he wants to take his time to uncover, and he sighs as he unwraps her

kisses every new piece of skin---

And then she flips them around and  _ oh _ , the look he gives her as she pulls off his own clothes, feels his heartbeat, feels his hitched breath, as her hands roam and explore and map him, 

discover, 

and he looks at her,  _ sees  _ her, 

sees  _ her--- _

and she nods.

With a growl he flips them back around and bends down to kiss her, starving, and wanting, and she can’t name the emotion, but she knows, she  _ knows _ , that he is hers and she is his, in all ways that matter, in every way that has ever mattered, and by all the wretched, abdicated gods of the past, when he finally enters her, it’s like coming home.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  


“We’re here for the briefing.”

The man at the controls in Holding isn’t Will, and Killian can’t let go of Emma’s hand. 

  
  


They spent the time until they had to report to Holding wrapped around each other, just breathing, just being. They took a shower together, languid, unhurried, talking only through touch.

It was when they got dressed that he noticed he couldn’t stop touching her.

Couldn’t let go of her.

So now they stand in the entryway to Holding, and the operative behind the terminal is not Will, and he can’t let go of Emma’s hand.

Agent Booth eyes them sternly, and when his gaze drops to their intertwined hands, his look becomes one of disgust. Killian squeezes Emma’s fingers and meets August’s glare head-on, dares him to comment.

Oh, how he would love a throw-down right about now.

But August does not take the bait. Instead he nods - disapproval and reprobation oozing from every pore - and simply buzzes them in.   
  


Robin and Regina both look up as they enter Interrogation. Killian watches as they notice Emma’s hand in his, but he does not care, and they do not comment.

All Regina says is, “I see you’re ready to go,” as she nods at the fact that they’re both wearing standard issue mission kit. Then she moves over to the wall, pushes a button, and says, “You can bring the Capture.” After which she inclines her head a fraction, and they all quietly settle in to wait.

  
  


Cora is the familiar pile of sallow skin and sharp bones when they bring her in, but her sunken eyes are as sharp as they were back down on L3, even though they are infinitely more tired now. Killian squares his shoulders and straightens up. He knows that they can’t trust Cora, but at the moment, she is the only game in town. 

And they do need her very specific knowledge of L3, even if they have to assume every hard fact to be a lie. The truth will be found between the lines.

And they  _ will  _ find it.

Emma will find it.

Cora nods at Killian as she watches him let go of Emma’s hand slowly, and take a seat across from her.

“So, handsome,” she ignores the three remaining people completely as she leans forward and fixates on him, “what is it that you need from me?”

“Everything covert you can give me on the layout of L3. Specifically the Rabbit Hole and Gold’s lair.” Killian wastes neither time nor words. “Secret passages, unused connectors, derelict walkways. Anything useful for tracking down Gold and Walsh and not getting caught.”

“What are you going to do to them?” Cora’s eyes glint. It is thoroughly disconcerting.

“That’s classified.” Robin sits down beside Killian. Cora gives him a withering look, which slowly turns into one of appreciation, before it goes back to supremely annoyed.

“Then you get nothing,” she hisses. 

“We can make you talk,” Robin says, and Cora laughs out loud. It’s an awful, hacking sound.

“How?” She leans back. “How can you make me? You couldn’t  _ make _ me talk before, not during your entire interrogation. You know my demands. Chip me, give me a place to live, and some money to do so, and  _ then  _ I’ll talk.”

“We’re going to kill them.”

Killian lets his voice cut through the bluster, and Cora looks up.

“We’re going Down to find Walsh and Gold and eliminate them.”

“Ah.” Cora’s eyes actually twinkle. It’s a frightening sight. “Now was that so hard?”

Killian suppresses a shiver. “Does that mean you will help us?”

“Not even a little bit.” Cora laughs again. She seems genuinely amused at the entire situation. As well as fully in charge of it. “Give me what I want, and then we’ll see.”

Behind them Regina’s watch beeps, and Killian turns around. Emma looks like she both wants to hide from and throttle Cora, and not for the first time tonight he fervently wishes Emma didn’t have to be here. That she wasn’t the only other person with knowledge of L3. 

When she meets Killian’s gaze she tries to smile, and that warmth floods back, spreads through his chest with both joy and terror, and he has to fight the urge to get up and take her and  _ leave _ .

Next to Emma, Commander Mills pulls out a handheld and hisses at the display. It’s an extreme reaction for her.

  
And then Killian feels it.

Tapping.

Robin’s fingers, tapping.

On his knee.

“Fine.” Regina’s voice breaks the silence and she looks up. Killian can see her jaw muscles jump. “We’ll give you what you want.”

Killian turns back in time to see Cora’s eyebrows rise. “Give me what?”

“All of it.” The commander sounds impatient. “If your intel pans out.”

There’s a knock on the door and Regina goes to open it. The front desk agent comes in, holding a digisheet and an injection gun.

“Agent Booth,” Regina says, as she takes the sheet from him and puts it in front of Cora. “Look. This is a full pardon for you. Signed by the Rulers.”

Killian almost rolls his eyes.

Cora does roll her eyes. “Oh  _ honey _ .” Her voice is back to silk and poison. “I’m not going to take your word for it that this is legit.”

Killian can hear Emma behind him inhale sharply. She has a point.

“I know.” Regina folds her arms. “But we’re also not prepared to give you anything before we know for sure your information is good. So here’s our proposal.” She’s back in control now. “August will chip you, right here, right now. The chip will be live, you can verify it on the monitor behind you.” Cora’s eyes narrow, but she is listening. “It will have all your information on it, but no clearance. That you’ll get once we know whether your intel was good. And not a moment sooner.” She uncrosses her arms and leans down. “These are our terms. Yes or no?”

Cora looks up at Commander Mills, stares at her for a long, silent moment, and no one moves for almost a minute. Then Cora blinks, and breaks the spell, and smiles a smile of deep satisfaction.

“Yes.” She leans back, and holds up her wrist. “Chip me, and I’ll tell you what I know about Gold and Walsh and their operation. But you have to promise me one thing.” 

She looks at from Regina to Killian, and her mouth turns down in disgust. Killian nods.

“Bring back their fucking heads on a  _ platter _ .”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  
  
  


The third time they take a Needle down is entirely different from the first two.

Killian takes the craft as far past the perimeter as he dares, to the edge of the highrises, and for a moment he is tempted to just keep on going, out past the smog and past the pollution into a world unknown. He keeps the Needle at a hover for long moments, trapped in limbo, just as he is, until Emma leans forward and takes his wrist.

Her thumb starts to rub his pulse point.

Just like he has done for her, so many times.

“Are you thinking of running?” Her voice is quiet.

“Yes.” His voice is strangled, but he doesn’t want to lie to her.

Her hand stays where it is, her thumb keeps moving.

“I am with you,” she says. “No matter what.”

A shudder runs through him. It’s so sharp and so close, the edge of this knife.

“What do you want?” It is excruciating, the weight of this question.

Her other hand comes up and tilts his chin in her direction. Makes sure he looks at her. Her eyes are so green, and so very, very clear.

“I want to put an end to this.” It’s quiet and sure. “This--- this one man and his lackeys, they have ruined and destroyed and ended thousands of lives,  _ thousands _ . He should pay. They should all pay.”

She looks fierce and fearless and  _ stars above _ , she’s beautiful.

“Aye,” he says, because it’s all he can say. Then he spins the craft vertical and starts their descent. She squeezes his wrist before she lets it go. They wind their way down the sides of broken, jagged buildings and pollution thicker than gas clouds, until Killian is navigating solely by compass and instinct. Emma doesn’t say a word, lets him concentrate, but her breathing stays calm and regular. She trusts him.

It’s lovely and wonderful and absolutely terrifying.

When they reach L3, he spins them back to horizontal and finds a rooftop just inside the perimeter. He sets down behind a large, broken fan-casing, and powers down.

Then he turns to Emma, who is taking off her seatbelts, and their eyes meet.

The way she looks at him. Like she’s ready for war. But also like he’s the only person on the planet she wants to take with her into battle. 

Something inside him erupts into a feeling bigger than hope and greater than fear.

He undoes his seatbelt with one hand and leans forward to kiss her. Her lips are soft and sure and she kisses him back like it’s a language that belongs to them, only them.

  
  


When they break apart, he has to take a long moment to catch his breath, and Emma waits, her forehead against his, her hand in his hair.

There is no part of him, none, that wants to be here. That wants her to be here.

But here they are.

And he will bring her back Up alive, if it’s the last thing he ever does.

  
  


“Emma,” he finally says, and takes her hand. “I have to tell you something.”

She nods and squeezes his fingers.

“I know you want to make them pay, all of them, and they should.” He pulls her hand up to his chest, to where his heart is racing. “And they should, they  _ should  _ pay. They  _ will  _ pay.”

He clears his throat.

“But back in Interrogation, Robin gave me a message.”

Emma’s head snaps up, and her eyes grow wide in question. “He did? How?”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Morse code. Tapped it against my leg while we were both sitting down. Which is just---” He can’t help but chuckle.

The symmetry is ludicrously fitting.

“What’s Morse code?”

He taps a pattern on her wrist. “Something which I intend to teach you soon. But it’s not important now. What’s important is what he told me.”

Emma raises her eyebrows.

“He tapped three words. Three words which tell me to ignore a direct order, given to me by the commander of all law enforcement.” He can feel her hand tighten in his. “Three words: Capture. Gold. Alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so SO MUCH for reading. You are lovely and wonderful - ALL OF YOU - and i hope you know it.


	11. Chapter 11

He keeps checking her gear. 

They are outfitted and prepped and so very ready to go, and yet he keeps pulling fabric and testing buckles and checking everything from knots to weapons. When he inspects her mask for the third time, she stays his hands.

He stills, but doesn’t look at her, and so she waits.

He doesn’t talk. Just breathes a few deep, weary breaths, and then, finally, meets her eyes.

And she nods.

  
  


When they exit the Needle Emma’s heart constricts for a moment, and then starts beating way too fast, and suddenly she has trouble breathing. She tries to calm down, but finds that she can’t, and it is that fact, the fact that she  _ cannot calm down _ , which ratchets her panic up into the stratosphere, and how can she be part of this mission when she is just a liability, when she knows nothing useful and panics at the sight of  _ nothing _ , and what if she gets Killian hurt, what if she gets him killed, what if Walsh and Gold win?

_ What if they fail? _

_ What if she fails? _

“Look at me,” comes his voice, so fucking calm it makes her teeth grind, and his hand lifts her chin. “Emma, look at me.”

It’s a physical feat, getting her eyes to lift up to his. But she does in the end.

“Match my breathing.” It’s a command. An order to follow.

He grips both of her shoulders and breathes as his foot taps the roof, two beats inhale, four beats exhale, over and over and over, until her breaths match his, two in, four out.

Two in.

Four out.

The panic is gone, and her heartbeats are steady.

“There.” He leans his forehead against hers. “That’s it. You got it.” And then he pulls her close. “You’re going to be tempted to feel guilty for this moment of weakness,” he whispers into her ear. “Please don’t. You are not weak. You are human.”

He kisses her cheek, just a soft brush of his lips.

“We’re about to risk our lives. You are allowed to be afraid. In fact, it would be awful if you weren’t.”

Then he pulls back and takes her face in both of his hands.

“It’s OK,” he whispers. 

“Tell me again why we’re doing this without your magic band-aid?”

His thumbs rub her cheeks. “Trust me on this. There are times when you do not want any part of your instincts suppressed. This is one of them.”

She bites her lip, just to feel the pain. “What if it happens again? What if it----” Her voice breaks.

“It’s all right, I promise.” He’s looking at her with all the faith in the world. “Next time you’re scared, count to ten.” He smiles. “Let yourself be terrified for those ten seconds. As afraid as you need to be.” His hands squeeze her shoulders. “And then stop.”

“Stop?”

“Yes, just stop. I promise it works.”

She almost laughs. It’s ridiculous.

“It’s the only way to go and do all the things you absolutely think you can’t. Believe me, love.”

The last word slams into her with force.

He seems to not have noticed saying it at all.

Her breath hitches, but she bites her lip again, until that small, immediate, sharp pain is all she feels, and then she smiles.

“OK,” she says, and means it. “Let’s do this.”

  
  
  
  


They move in near silence. 

The world around them is loud enough.

The building they have landed on has a rickety fire escape at the far end, and they use it to descend to a rusted-out walkway that looks like it’s hanging by a few shreds of rebar and hope. There are gaping holes in the slats and the wire mesh underneath it, and Killian traverses the length of the walkway before Emma even dares put a foot on it.

It sways and groans, even under her weight.

It’s slow going, their way to The Rabbit Hole, across crumbling rooftops and rotting wood and corroded metal, and through broken windows. They are not merely passing the signs of decay, they are surrounded by it, inside of it, trapped in these fables of the dissolution.

They are making their way across the least accessible and almost entirely abandoned section of L3 formerly known as the South Side, and the wreckage of it becomes harder to carry the further they go. Emma wonders what her own neighborhood looks like now.

What it will look like 15 years from now. 

They cross a rooftop which sports faded white lines and a rusted basketball pole, and she has to concentrate to keep her breathing steady, because the sadness of it feels like a boulder on her chest.

She doesn’t want to capture Gold.

She wants to  _ end  _ him.

And that scares her most of all.

  
  


Killian takes her hand before they get to the edge of the roof, and they stop walking. They are directly across from the building where he parked the Needle the first time they came down here, where she saved his life and got stabbed in the process and started it all.

He smiles at her and then pulls her down as he sinks to his knees. They crawl to the edge of the building and he bends his head towards hers.

“Steady now,” he whispers into her ear. “Let me look first.”

She waits as he carefully lifts himself and glances over the lip of the roof.

“Gold’s guards are patrolling the plaza,” he says, once he’s back down next to her. 

“Dragons,” she mumbles, and looks up. “Did you know they weren’t actually called Dragons, originally? Gold called them Dragoons. Red Dragoons. It was in a book he read about the British, a long time ago, when the country was first founded. He just liked the name. And then gave them the red masks because of it.”

She is babbling and she knows it.   
Killian takes her hand again, rubs her wrist gently.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s just--- ”

“It’s all right,” he says, and leans forward to kiss her. “Shhhhhhh.”

It settles her, anchors her, and when she looks up at him, she is back in the game.

“Dragons?” She asks. “So there’s no way we can cross anywhere near the plaza, right?”

Killian shakes his head. “Unfortunately no. And there is no way we can jump across. We’ll have to see if Cora was right, and there’s a forgotten extendable connector on the floor below us.”

  
  
  


They enter the floor below by dropping through a grate, and Emma goes white as a sheet as she dangles off the edge of the skylight and then lands hard on the floor below, next to him. She’s been getting paler and paler the further they got, and Killian is worried.

Maybe he should have given her a sticky.

Maybe what they’re asking is too much.

They find the connector, and it’s not much more than a collapsible metal tube with a winch, never meant to serve as a walkway or support anything more than dry goods. It was obviously used to transport small objects through its hollow center once upon a time, probably with the use of pneumatics.   
It looks more like a playful addition to this building than an actual serious piece of equipment, something the tennants used for fun more than necessity. Probably to shoot paper notes back and forth, or small gifts, or maybe food and drink. Its diameter would fit a liquor bottle, only just.

It was never meant to support the weight of a human being, and he grinds his teeth hard.   
‘Connector’, Cora had called it. Technically it hadn’t been a lie. But it hadn’t been the truth, either.

He starts to turn the winch carefully, but it’s quiet enough, and the tube starts to telescope out, across to the window opposite them, and then he turns to Emma.

Her lips are bloodless, and her eyes are huge and afraid.

“What are we going to do?” Her voice is toneless.

He tries to make his own voice calm, rational. “I think we have to crawl across the beam.”

She looks out the window, and when she pulls back she starts to shake like a leaf. Tears spring to her eyes, and her mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

“Emma?”

She shakes her head, and her trembling becomes much more pronounced, and if he hadn’t been worried before, he would definitely be so now.

“High,” she finally grinds out between chattering teeth. “We’re so high.”

Fuck.

Of course.

She’s not afraid of heights per se, but she is definitely afraid of  _ this _ . And if he had been forced to climb out of an abyss the way she had, he’d be afraid, too. Hell, he’d never even climb a ladder again.

He looks at her, afraid, and angry at herself for being afraid, and trying so hard to not be afraid, and then he hears it.   
She’s counting.

Under her breath, she is counting.

And when she gets to ten, she exhales and looks up, level and steady, her jaw set, her eyes narrow, her body no longer shaking, and all he can think is----

“I love you.” 

It just slips out.

Here, in the wreckage that is this building, on this impossible mission, inside this symbol of the decay that is the form and substance of their lives no matter which Level they inhabit, in this absolutely inappropriate time and space, it is the truest and realest and most perfect realization of his entire life.

He has never loved anyone or anything as much as he does the woman before him, not even himself, and he needs her to know it.

Emma’s face grows soft and her eyes large, and full of question, and she bites her lip, like she’s not sure she’s heard him right, and he simply steps forward, and wraps his arms around her and bends his mouth to her ear.

“You, Emma Swan. You are the most amazing person I have ever met, and I love you.”

He can feel her shiver, and then she melts into his embrace; and in the middle of these broken buildings and these broken lives, she says, “I love you, too.”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


The walkway is so much easier to traverse this time, now that she doesn’t have to carry him, and when she looks up, she can see he is thinking the exact same thing.

Ten minutes ago they shimmied across a skinny, wavering beam and Emma nearly threw up when she reached the other side. And Killian let her catch her breath and hold on to him, just for a moment. He told her again that she wasn’t weak, only human, and one of these days she will believe him.

One of these days.

Now they’re crossing the decommissioned walkway and Emma remembers her legs shaking as she hauled Killian over the rusted slats, and feels his hand clasp hers, tightly.

“Is this the way you came last time?” His voice is low, and hoarse.

She just nods. The walkway sways beneath them. It’s at the tail end of structural integrity, worse than it was even those few days ago.

His fingers wrap around her wrist in a death grip before he lets go, and when they finally get to the other side, he stops her.

“Thank you,” he says, and there is so much meaning behind it, it takes her breath away. His eyes grow wet for the briefest of moments, before he blinks them dry, and says again, “Thank you.”

It doesn’t just mean a lot.

It means everything.

He is standing there, with his serious eyes and his honest expression and the way she can read every single emotion on his wide open face, and she knows.

They save each other. They will always save each other.

  
  


The garbage bin is just where they left it, and the chute that goes up from it looks daunting and insurmountable. Killian gives her a boost into the dumpster, and then points up into the smooth hollow of the gutter pipe. 

“All right, Emma,” he says. “I’m going to give you a lift up, and all you have to do is keep your back straight and push against the other side with your feet. You can do this.” He smiles at her and she feels better. “You climbed a building. You can shimmy up a chute.”

Yes, she can.

Of course she can.

  
  
  
  


The catwalk is frayed and wobbling and extremely unstable and he has no idea how on earth she got him past it the first time. It’s impossible.

There is a lead balloon of fear in his gut, locked away for now, but ready to burst forth and become panic; because he is more afraid of losing her than he is of losing his own life, and the fact that it is extremely likely he will have to make  _ that _ decision doesn’t scare him nearly as much as the potential of Emma not making it out of this alive.

Or making it out in pieces.

They move more slowly on the catwalk than they have the entire way to The Rabbit Hole, across the corroded slats and past the wobbling suspenders until they finally, finally get to the grate.

Emma turns to him and nods. “This comes out underneath the second to last booth on the left,” she whispers, and then pauses for a moment before she says, “I think I should go first. There’s not really enough room for both of us.”

His brow furrows. “How did you do it last time? There were two of us then, and I was unconscious.”

He has to take her hand.   
Feel it, warm and alive, in his.

Her fingers squeeze back. “I stretched out on top of you.” She smiles a shy little smile. “I only had seconds, and I had to get something across your airways so you wouldn’t keep breathing full doses of the gas, and...”

Her voice trails off and he looks at her. “Are you  _ apologizing _ ? For saving my  _ life _ ?” 

She bites her lip and he kisses her, soft and swift, just enough for her to stop.

“It was brilliant, love, like everything you do. And that’s how we’ll go in now.”

He looks at her, waits for her to nod and then open the grate. It’s strangely silent, the hinges moving as if recently oiled, and it sets off faint warning bells in his gut. Not enough to stop them, but enough to make him uneasy. He waits for a moment, listens, but it’s ridiculous, listening for the absence of sound. His tension ratchets up a notch.

He puts his arms and shoulders through the opening and then slowly starts to stretch across the floor, slides through the grate as quietly as possible. After he pulls his feet through, he feels Emma’s hands on his calves as she levers herself up, feels her grip his belt and pull, feels her slide down the length of his back, all the way, until her mouth is next to his ear. He holds up his balled fist, signals her to wait and listen.

The bar is dark and empty and deserted, as it should be at this time of the early afternoon, after the Feeding is done and before the club opens. It is deathly quiet, and their breathing, no matter how slight, is the loudest thing in it. 

He can feel Emma’s weight on top of him, and for yet another moment he is tempted to leave, just turn around and run and take their Needle as far as it will take them. He was tempted before, but it’s different now, now that there is love, now that he is hers, body and soul, and  _ she should not be here _ .

_ He should not be here. _

_ Nobody should. _

He exhales slowly, softly, hears nothing but her breathing in his ear and his heartbeat in his temples, until her hand gently squeezes his shoulder, anchors him in the present and tethers him to the job at hand. The silence of the bar filters back, and from his vantage point he can see bits of food strewn across the floor, and the streaks of hastily mopped-up liquid, and a barrette.

A cheap plastic barrette, open, broken, a few strands of hair still caught in it. 

He turns his head slightly, just to feel Emma’s cheek against his, and closes his eyes. Pictures the layout of the room, from memory and what little he can see in the dark, and feels Emma’s skin, soft and warm against his, and concentrates on what lies ahead.

They wait for two whole minutes in complete silence, and finally he nods.   
“OK?” It’s nothing more than a breath in his ear.

Killian nods again, and they slide out from underneath the booth, slowly, very slowly, get up, and look around, and then----

Lights flick on.

Everywhere.   
It is blinding.

“So nice of you to join us, dearies.”

The voice is both thoroughly amused and inherently dangerous, and Killian is busy trying to blink back the pain in his eyes, and regain his vision, and get his bearings, and figure out where the voice is coming from, and grasp Emma’s arm so she doesn’t do anything rash--- 

because he knows he has seconds, fractions of seconds, knows that this is the only moment that counts, this small space in time, when his opponents still think he’s befuddled and confused.

But he is neither. He is an agent, an  _ agent _ , and he is trained for this.

Neurons are sparking like firecrackers. Fractions of seconds are all he needs.

_ Three unfriendlies.  _

_ A short man, wiry; easy stance, confident, comfortable posture; standing in an elevated back booth with a full view of everything. Clearly in charge. Probably Gold. _

_ A tall man, well-trained, seasoned, behind him on his left; feet at shoulder width, weight evenly distributed, gun drawn. Part of the help. Waiting for orders. _

_ A medium-sized man on his right, loose-limbed; battle stance lax, arrogant; a small automatic weapon strapped to his shoulder; holding a large knife, Bowie probably, grip deceptively sloppy. Secure in his superiority. Walsh. _

Killian takes one breath, just one, and then throws himself sideways and backwards, into the man with the drawn gun, and knocks him off balance, while pulling Emma’s arm around him in a wide circle, turning her, forcing her feet to  _ move _ , around him, around the falling soldier, 

and then he releases her wrist, at the apex of his outstretched fingers, gives her maximum impetus towards the doorway behind them while putting his body between her and the rest of the room, and yells,

“ _ RUN. _ ”

And she does.

And then he feels himself falling, pulled down by the soldier going down beneath him, and he hears a gunshot from far, far away, and then---

Pain.

Pain such as he has never felt before, ever; blinding, crippling, debilitating, all-consuming----

as he watches in wonder as a broad blade buries itself to the hilt in his left palm.

  
  
  
  


-/-   
  
  


_ Don’t throw up. _

That is the phrase ricocheting around her brain like a loose marble.

_ Don’t throw up _ , as she runs out the door,  _ don’t throw up _ as she makes a sharp right and flies down the hallway,  _ don’t throw up _ as she punches the code into the keypad of a temp room with shaking fingers, the same temp room where she and Killian stopped to talk, a lifetime ago. 

_ Don’t throw up _ as the door clicks shut and she sinks down to the floor.

_ Don’t throw up. _

_ Breathe. _

  
  


She looks up at the timer clock above the bed, which started its countdown the moment the lock engaged. 9 minutes and 47 seconds.

At the end of which a klaxon will alert everyone to her presence.

Which means she has less than ten minutes to come up with a plan.

9:13 now, actually.

Emma takes a deep breath and fights down the nausea. Looks at her arm, sees blood. Not a lot, not even enough to be painful. She pushes her sleeve up and sees that the bullet the soldier fired back in the bar grazed her a little.

Which means it didn’t hit Killian, and she is so grateful for that, her knees start to shake, even though she is sitting down. 

Killian.   
Who is back there, back at the bar, with Walsh, with  _ Gold _ .

She can’t think, she can’t breathe, she can’t think.

She has to breathe, she has to think, she has to  _ breathe _ .

_ Count to ten. Count to ten, love. I promise you, it works. _

So,  _ one, two _ \-- where can she possibly go from here?

_ three, four, five _ \-- she needs a hiding place

_ six, seven, eight _ \-- she needs to figure out where they’re taking him, find him

_ nine, ten  _ \-- this is impossible.

_ Impossible. _

Nausea comes back, and when she looks up there are less than eight minutes left.

She takes another deep breath, wills her panic to settle, and then she hears it.   
Behind her the door lock clicks open.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He comes back up for air inside a deluge of freezing water, and he sputters and coughs as he tries to get his bearings again.

He cannot move. He’s standing up, strapped to something which is bolted to a wall, or the floor, or most likely both. There are fastenings across his chest, hips, and legs, and his wrists are tied above his head.

When he looks up he has to bite his tongue to not call out surprise and shock. His left hand is bisected by a knife, a knife which is still  _ in it _ .

There is a curious absence of pain.

Until he sees the sticky on his right wrist, bearing a large red cross.

“Ah,” says a soft voice from across the room. “So nice to see you’re back with us.”

The man who steps forward first is not the speaker. It is Walsh, holding an empty bucket, a look of absolute and unmitigated fury on his face. He is literally grinding his teeth.

The fist comes out of nowhere and clocks Killian with a vicious right hook, one which nearly knocks him unconscious again, but only a small stab of pain lances through the effect of the sticky, and so his brain keeps compiling data on the man standing before him.

_ Right-handed.  _

_ Familiar with hand-to-hand combat and well-versed in human anatomy, specifically the vulnerable spots.  _

_ Irascible, volatile, with serious impulse control issues and a hair-trigger temper.  _

_ Well-trained, physically fit, knows how to handle himself in a fight.  _

  
Killian shudders when he imagines this man with Emma. Anywhere  _ near _ Emma. On the same Level as Emma. On the same planet.

He closes his eyes briefly, and remembers her disappearing through an open doorway, and he makes himself believe she got away.   
She’s not here after all, not here in this room, not at the mercy of her former masters. He has to believe that she got away. Has to.

“Nah-ah-ah!” comes the sing-song-y voice from behind Walsh again, and Killian opens his eyes. “Let’s leave him conscious for now, shall we?” Killian watches Walsh’s jaw muscles clench in extreme reluctance.

_ Imperious, confident, superior.  _

_ Has not had to answer to anyone but himself in a long time. Not even Gold. Loathes being reined in. _

But as averse to taking orders as Walsh may be, he still nods, and moves aside, and then Gold finally steps into view.

He is not very tall, and deceptively slight, but he moves with the kind of confidence which comes from being in absolute control of any given situation. 

His smile is chilling and yet genuinely joyful, and the joy is the most chilling thing about it. 

He walks up to Killian slowly, takes his sweet time, demonstrating both his lack of worry and the fact that he is relishing the situation.

This man likes power.

And down here, this man  _ is _ power.

“Now, agent.” Still that sing-song-y voice. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions.” His eyes sparkle with glee. “And I know you’ll be tempted to be---  _ unhelpful _ .” The glee turns to eager anticipation. “But I advise you to resist that temptation.”

Killian bites down hard on a scathing reply, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Why are you here?” Gold’s voice is no longer melodious. It is sharp as a scalpel. Killian opens his eyes and meets Gold’s head-on.

And remains silent.

Gold studies him for several long breaths, and then repeats, “Why are you here?”

Killian doesn’t move, and doesn’t look away.

And doesn’t answer.

“Very well then,” Gold hums. Then he lifts his hand, and with one smooth motion pulls the sticky off Killian’s wrist.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, my lovelies. Thank you so MUCH!!!!


	12. Chapter 12

  
  


In a large room far above the noise and pollution of a crumbling city, a woman with close-cropped dark hair stands before an enormous window, not seeing a thing. She can hear the echoes of the bubbling first laughter of a six-month-old. See an emerging smile. Feel a tiny little hand wrap around her finger with enough strength to be lifted up, just with that grip.

Behind her, sitting at a terminal built into a large table, her husband scrolls through hundreds of lines of information, and then finally accesses the Deep Archive.

A restricted section of the Deep Archive.

One to which only he and his wife have clearance.

In a Holding cell four floors beneath them, a young man looks up with a smile halfway between carefree and knowing as his cell door slides back to reveal a different man, older, battle-weary, holding a bag of onion blossoms from Granny’s. They sit next to each other on a small cot while the younger man devours his fried treat, and they don’t talk about anything in particular. 

The younger man’s hand remains hidden in the paper food bag for quite a while.

The older man’s foot taps a nervous rhythm on occasion.

The last few minutes, they sit in complete silence.

Unmoving.

And then the older man nods.

In an office on the other side of the compound, a woman in perfectly tailored gear runs a sensor over the walls in her office. It doesn’t beep.

Five Levels below her, a man with a large, ugly-looking blade bisecting his left hand, screams in unspeakable pain.

And a floor up and a few doors down, a woman with blonde, hacked-off hair, looks up at a figure standing in an open door frame.

  
  


_ "Ruby? _ ”

“Quick,” comes the answer from the woman in the doorway. “We need to go right now.”

Emma gets up slowly. Her muscles are not working right.

_ "Right now _ .”

The woman hauls Emma all the way up by the collar and shoves her out the door, and then drags her down the hall, past the private rooms, behind the entryway, through the kitchen, through the walk-in fridge, and into the walk-in freezer.

Only then does she let go.

Emma looks around. Between the racks of trays and boxes of food - (so much food, more than enough for the entertainment tricksies on every Level, Emma is sure of it) - there are four other women.

Cold, and hungry, and bruised, and  _ angry _ .

Rage is rolling off them in waves.

Emma knows each and every one of them. Has fought each and every one of them for scraps, has had moments of solace and comfort and despair and hatred with each one as well.

“We saw what happened.” It is Ruby who speaks. She is tall and lanky and gorgeous. Gold’s most prized possession and by far the most valuable, the largest earner, of them all. As well as their unspoken leader.

“How?” Emma’s brain is not working either. “Where?”

“Did you think your little stunt would go unpunished? Did you think they wouldn’t go over every inch of this place, find every gap in the net?” Ruby’s face is impassive, and Emma closes her eyes. Here it comes. 

Ruby was never as locked into her room as the others. She has plenty of extracurricular activities. 

Everything Emma knows about L3, every single thing about unused walkways and unlocked buildings and unwatched doors and hidden catwalks, Emma has learned from Ruby. In three years of patient conversation, Emma collected every piece of secret information she could and then took utmost advantage of this knowledge.

Ruby takes a step forward and fixes her with a hard stare, and Emma prepares for retaliation. She deserves it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Ruby’s voice is as sharp as a whip and not nearly as forgiving.

Emma flinches. “Like what?”

Ruby laughs. “Like a beaten dog waiting for punishment.” She quirks a perfect eyebrow. “We get enough of that around here.”

Emma's jaw drops. Ruby laughs again and rolls her eyes.

“It’s all right,” Ruby goes on. “You did what you needed to do with the secrets I told you. I can’t be mad at you for that.”

  
  
  


Many times in the last few days has Emma felt her life careen off the path of reality and sanity, but never more than right at this moment.

This is not real. 

It can’t be.

She thinks of Killian, somewhere in the bowels of this maze, being questioned, being  _ tortured. _ Because he gave her an escape, rather than freeing himself. Because he loves her more than he loves himself.

She wants to scream at him, into the past, into that moment of action, scream at him to save himself and not her, because she is fucking useless,  _ useless, _ because her freedom doesn’t mean a thing and benefits no one. If he escaped and left her to be captured,  _ he _ would now be here, with ideas on how to salvage this mess. 

Whereas she knows nothing, knows less than nothing, least of all what to do now. She can see him, his blue eyes calm and certain and hopeful.

When there is no hope.

A slap on her cheek brings her back to the present. The very very  _ cold  _ present.

“Snap out of it.” Ruby’s voice is a hiss. “We don’t have time for you to be afraid. But what we do have is a tap into the surveillance system.” She holds up a handheld. “That’s how they found you, by the way. After you escaped, they put cameras  _ everywhere _ .” She grins. “Which is kinda good for us, now that we have them tapped.”

The women behind her nod.

And grin.

It doesn’t detract from their fury in the least.

Emma takes a deep breath. Feels the cold air on her face, the sting of the slap on her cheek, and almost laughs. Because she is here, and alive, and she’s escaped this hellhole three times now,  _ three times, _ and she's not alone, and of course there is hope.

There is always hope.

The freezer door opens and seven more tricksies walk in. Ruby looks at them an nods.

“Emma,” she says. “There’s no time to explain. But there is time to act.” She sweeps her hand around the room, past eleven hard-set, determined, angry faces. “We are in this. We are ready to fight.”

It comes on hard and strong, the surge of confidence and optimism, and Emma can feel her spine stretch tall even as her knees try to buckle.

Can feel the air rush from her lungs even as she takes a deep breath.

Can feel twelve pairs of eyes looking at her, ready and willing to go to  _ war _ .

And then she laughs, out loud. 

“You are amazing.” There is so much conviction around her, so much courage, so much resolution, it’s breathtaking. Her voice becomes a whisper. “Amazing.”

Ruby grins. “So, what do you say. Shall we go and kill them all?”

Emma shakes her head. “We can’t kill Gold.” 

There are mutters of dissent as Ruby snaps,  _ "What? _ ”

Emma meets her gaze. “We cannot kill Gold. We need him alive.” She lifts her chin. 

“No.” It’s a short, black-haired girl who speaks. Young, and new to Gold’s stable, and full of rage. “He dies. He has to die.”

Emma turns and shakes her head again. “He deserves to die. I’m not arguing that at all. But I need him alive. He has answers. Answers we need.” 

“You mean answers the Rulers need.  _ Above. _ ” The hatred in the girl’s voice is lethal.

“Yes, Jasmine.” Emma nods. There is no use in lying. “It’s true. I was asked to bring Gold back alive. But for what it’s worth - I think I need those answers, too. I think whatever he knows, it’s important.”

There is a long moment of silence, and then Jasmine nods. “Fine. But Walsh and the Dragons are fair game. Deal?”

“Deal.” Emma can feel her eyes narrow, can feel determination spread to every last blood vessel and nerve ending. “They’re all fair game. But Walsh is  _ mine. _ ”

-/-

  
  


Killian’s throat is raw from screaming. He notices it with a sense of detachment.

You can train for torture all you want, and still not be prepapred for it when it does come around. He certainly wasn’t.

But so far he has managed not to utter a word, and that’s really the best he can do.

“Why are you here?”

Are they still on that? He blocks out Gold’s voice and thinks of Emma. 

Hopes she is on her way back to the Needle. Hopes the Needle has not been discovered. 

In his mind’s eye she is looking at him, her eyes soft, her smile even softer.

A brutal punch to the solar plexus brings him back to the present. Knocks the air from his lungs.

“I see that what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Gold steps into his line of vision, something new in his smile. Something _ terrifying.  
_  


“Let’s see if we can’t jog your memory,  _ Captain Jones. _ ”    
  


Killian can’t help it. He flinches, hard.  Gold knows who he is.

Through the haze of pure pain and near fatal exhaustion, Killian shivers. It means the tentacles of Gold’s spy network, of his organization, have reached Level 8. He has intel on them, on him. Probably other agents. Maybe all of them. 

This is very,  _ very _ bad. 

“Killian Jones, born and raised on L7.” Gold’s voice sounds like he is eating something supremely delicious. “Mother died when you were a boy, father abandoned you and your brother, left you to your own devices, correct?”

Killian can feel himself starting to shake, and it’s not from the pain.

“Your brother raised you until you were sixteen and then----” Gold pauses, enjoying the moment, “abandoned you, too. Didn’t he.”

Killian has to bite his tongue in order to remain silent.

“Whereafter you joined the police force and became one of The Good Guys. Which is... ironic.” Gold’s smile turns into a smirk as he walks over to the Dragon guarding the door, the Dragon who brought down Killian back at the bar.

“Take off your mask,” Gold says, his voice low and inviting.

The man slowly lifts his hand and pulls back the fabric.

And Killian’s world.

Stops.

_ I know your face. _

_ The way you used to look at me with fond exasperation, I know. _

_ Your face, with dad’s eyes and mom’s smile, I know. _

_ And the endless I’mSorrys, I know,  _ ** _I know_ ** _ . _

_ I’m sorry we’re having potatoes five days in a row, I’m sorry there’s nothing but half-rotten carrots for dinner, here, let me cut off the bad parts, I’m sorry. _

_ I know all the other kids have handhelds and basketballs and sneakers, I know. I am so sorry, Killian. Would you like some ice cream? I think we can afford some ice cream for you. _

_ Please do your homework, I won’t ask again. _

_ If I catch you with dust one more time, I will beat you until you  _ ** _beg_ ** _ for mercy, do you hear me, do you HEAR ME? I am not letting you ruin your life. _

_ I got a job on the lower Levels, it’ll take a few weeks. Can you not fuck things up while I’m gone? _

_ I’m sorry, but I have to do this. _

_ I promise I’ll be back. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I know your face, brother. _

  
  


There should be screaming cacophony in his head. Questions should be pinging through his mind, because it’s Liam, it’s  _ Liam, _ down here, as Gold’s henchman, on this Level, embroiled in ugliness and torture and  _ TheSinsOfOurFather, _ there should be screaming in his head, nothing but screaming, but there isn’t.

His mind is blank.

His brother looks at him, no expression in his clear eyes whatsoever, and remains unmoving, next to the door.

Killian can’t breathe.

In front of him, Gold starts to laugh.

The pain in his hand suddenly comes back with a vengeance, and Killian can barely move his head enough to look over at Walsh, twisting the knife in his palm,

pushing it down,

and he screams and screams and screams and-----

  
  


The door bursts open. 

He can hear it, even over his own howling. 

Through the door come furies,  _ furies _ \- their rage burning, palpable, all-consuming; their eyes on fire, their movements sure and without mercy, and there, in the thick of it, Emma. Something inside of Killian snaps, and feeling comes rushing back all at once, because even in the middle of this, caught between Gold and Walsh, and the knife in his hand,  _ and the return of his brother _ \----

She is here.

_ She is here. _

_ They will always save each other. _

  
  
  
  


With a battle cry Emma slams a frozen leg of pork into the face mask of the first Dragon she encounters. Even in the din around her, she thinks she can hear a satisfying  _ crack _ as he goes down before her. 

Their weapons are ridiculous. But very effective. The symmetry of beating Dragons and kings with the spoils of their own freezer is more gratifying than she could have ever imagined. And it’s not like they had any other options.

The hallway behind them is littered with bodies, most of them brought down by Emma’s gun, shot from behind the grate of an air-vent. But not by Emma.

It turns out that Elsa is an amazing shot.

And now Emma is out of bullets.

But it doesn’t matter. They have clubs of frozen meat, solid as concrete but not nearly as heavy, and they’re in a confined space, and they outnumber the Dragons two to one.

They can do this.

A shot rings out next to Emma’s ear and something solid and painful connects with the back of her head, stuns her where she stands for a moment. Her knees buckle, and she goes down hard, just as another bullet buries itself in the wall in front of her.

She feels nauseated for a moment.

Has to catch her breath. 

A spray of arterial blood erupts beside her and she just manages to turn her head, let the side of her face catch the brunt of it, warm and sticky and pumping with someone else’s heartbeat. A body falls down heavy at her feet. 

She pushes herself up and sees a Dragon, unmasked, by the door, pull his gun from his holster and throw it, and throw it--- straight into Elsa’s waiting hands. It’s beautiful to watch how she catches the gun and turns to aim in one fluid movement, like a dance of practice and death and destruction. Where did Elsa learn the steps?

Emma wipes blood from her lashes and sees a shadow from the corner of her left eye. She pulls up both hands, and her makeshift club connects with a forearm, and a rifle goes flying while she is still busy turning, and then two shots ring out, drop two more bodies to the ground. Emma sees Elsa and the Dragon, guns drawn, back to back, moving in a circle.

Next to her she hears a scream, high-pitched and furious, as a shock of grey hair and a gold-dust leather jacket get buried beneath three women howling like wolves. When they look up there is bloodlust in their eyes and satisfaction in their smiles, and Emma grinds out, Don’tKillHim

_ Don’tKillHim _

And then she turns and sees----

Killian.

  
  


He’s strapped to an upright metal gurney, bolted to the wall. The gurney is covered in old blood,  _ black _ with it. He is hanging in the straps, limp, bloody, barely conscious and so, so pale.

Next to him Walsh is still gripping the hilt of a knife, a knife that’s in Killian’s hand,  _ in his hand _ , and twisting it,  _ twisting  _ it, and how is Killian not screaming in pain, how is he not vomiting, how isn’t Emma?

How is this moment - the sight of the man she loathes most in the world hurting the man she loves  _ (yes, loves, there will never again be doubt) _ \- how is this moment not breaking her into pieces so small, the shards would be dust?

How is she not going out of her mind?

With his other hand Walsh pulls a gun from its holster, as his eyes focus on Emma and narrow in hatred, in disgust, in contempt---

Killian’s head falls forward, his face slack, unmoving, and for a moment Walsh turns his head.

Emma springs up with a roar. It is fury and vengeance and wrath made sound, and she crosses the distance in two strides, swings the pork leg up, almost over her head, 

barrels into Walsh, shoulder-first, with brute force,

and he goes down, beneath her.

There’s a stunned expression on his face.

She doesn’t savor it.

She brings the club of frozen meat down,

down,

_ down, _

to crash into the smack dead center of Walsh’s face with her whole weight behind it.

The crack echoes through the room and then everything is quiet.

Somewhere far, far away, Ruby says, “I guess the food fights were good for something.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


“Killian.”

The voice is so far away, but urgent, insistent.

“Killian, can you hear me?”

He can. He just can’t say it.

His body is on fire. All he can SeeFeelAndTaste is pain.

“Killian. Killian, please.”

It sounds afraid. He doesn’t want her to be afraid. But he has no voice of his own inside this torment. 

And then--- it stops.

The pain vanishes, all of it, all at once.

His eyes snap open.

And he sees Emma, her face covered in blood, her eyes so green and clear, her teeth buried in her lip. 

_ LoveYou. _

Her eyes are shiny. And shell-shocked, and huge. But soft in his, soft and warm and relieved.

He lifts his right hand, smears blood across her cheek. “Are you hurt, love?”

She shakes her head with a tiny little smile. “It’s not my blood,” she whispers. And her eyes grow shiny again.

He is sitting on the floor of a concrete room. There are at least five bodies on the ground, dead, or unmoving. A group of women, ragged, bloodied, and absolutely triumphant, mills about; smiles of grim satisfaction on their lips, kicking the occasional bent arm, soft middle. 

On his right is what’s left of Walsh, twisted and broken, a leg of frozen pork lying across his face.

He looks over at Emma, at the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks, and reaches for her arm, catches her wrist.

“Please don’t cry, love,” he whispers, as his fingers tap her pulse point. “Not for him. Not for them.”

She nods and blinks away more tears, and then squares her shoulders, straightens her spine.

_ LoveYouSoMuch. _

In the corner almost directly across from him, Gold sits perfectly still, hands behind his back. A gorgeous brunette keeps her hand fisted in his hair, pulling up, while another kneels before him, holding down his legs.    
It’s a very effective way of keeping Gold immobile.

Not counting the two people standing to each side, gun drawn, ready, and aiming.

One of them is a blonde woman, her stance flawless, her eyes narrow, her lips a straight line.

The other one is his brother.

“Liam.” He hardly recognizes his own voice. In it are pieces of the sixteen-year-old boy he used to be.

Emma gasps. “How do you----”

“Wait.” Liam looks over at one of the women walking in, holding several zip ties.

Emma moves to Killian’s other side and holds his left wrist as the brunette pulls up Gold’s hair even straighter. Killian can hear him groan.

The woman with the zip ties crouches behind Gold’s back, and a ratcheting sound has Gold gasping. Killian would be willing to bet hard currency that the ties around Gold’s wrist are cutting off his circulation already.

“Got it,” the woman says, getting back up. “You can let go, Ruby.”

The brunette named Ruby steps aside and Gold slumps. “You’ll regret this, dearie,” he rasps, nearly choking in his impotent rage. “You’ll regret the day you were born, when I’m done with you.”

Ruby simply nods to the woman still crouching before Gold, and she plows a vicious left hook to the center of his chin. His head collides with the wall and he’s out cold, and Ruby quirks an unapologetic eyebrow.

_ "Fuck, _ that man liked to talk.”

She toes him with the tip of her stiletto, but Gold doesn’t move.

“Liam.” That’s Emma, next to him, and her voice is urgent. “Liam, I need your help.”

He feels strangely lightheaded. Emma knows Liam’s name, and nothing makes sense.

His vision slides out of focus as his brother turns, and looks at Emma, looks past Emma, and pales. And sinks down on his knees in front of him.

“Killian.” There are lines in Liam’s face that weren’t there years ago, hard lines, and scars. But his eyes are the same.

“Killian, I need you to hold still.”

The blonde girl with the gun comes over and puts a hand on Liam’s shoulder. 

“You hold him down,” she says softly. “Emma and I got this.”

He looks up at his brother.

At his scarred, lined face, open and worried.

At his mouth as it says, “This is going to hurt. I am so sorry.”

Killian smiles and closes his eyes.

Liam is here, and he’s fixing everything, and he’s  _ sorry _ \-- and it’s just the circle of life.

  
  


.

  
  


“Now.” Elsa’s voice is as sharp as the blade below it. “Now, Emma.  _ Pull. _ ” 

The knife leaves Killian’s palm with a wet, sucking sound, and he screams, rears up, nearly out of Liam’s grip, and  _ oh---- _

There is so much blood. Gushing despite the tourniquet, despite the fabric Elsa presses against it, and Emma drops the knife with a clatter, snaps her sheet of gauze taut, and starts wrapping his limb with clumsy, frantic movements.

Killian slumps forward and Liam has a hard time keeping him upright. But he is still conscious. The sticky holds. The moment Emma is done tying off the bandage she slides under his arm, presses her body to his and gently pulls down his head to rest on her shoulder.

Kisses his neck, his forehead, his cheek, because what she wants to say has no words.

“Do you have an exit plan?”

It is Liam who speaks, stiff and almost formal, as he lets go of Killian completely, leaves him in Emma’s arms.

“We did.” Emma can hear uncertainty, can hear tears in her voice, and she hates them so much, these moments of weakness that just come, that just  _ come. _

She takes a deep breath. “We have a Needle on a roof near the perimeter. But it’s much too far away. We can’t get Gold there. We can’t carry Killian.”

Liam nods. “The racket would bring down the wrath of the whole Golden Circle. But we can’t stay here either. They will find us. Soon.”

Emma looks up, at thirteen pairs of eyes, and tears start to roll down her cheeks in earnest. Killian is starting to shake.

She is so tired. 

So tired of being ground up between the rock and the hard place, so tired of defeat and of killing and death.

But then Killian lifts his head. He can’t focus his eyes, but he does see her.

His face softens. 

“Remote,” he whispers. “You have. Homing signal.” He takes a deep breath with an effort. “Your chip. Linked. To mine.”

He clears his throat, his voice nearly gone. “Your chip to mine. Mine. To the Needle.”

His eyes roll back, but Emma understands.

_ She understands. _

“I need his handheld.” Emma nods at Liam, pulls a small remote from her pocket. “Left leg, side pocket.”

She aims the remote at her wrist and pushes the bottom button and hopes with everything she has, everything she is, that she this doing it right.

The remote beeps.

She presses it to Killian’s wrist and pushes the button again, and again, it beeps.

Liam hands her the handheld and the screen comes up, and she lifts Killian’s hand, pushes his thumb to the lower left hand corner, and there----

Emma sobs with relief.

She is a blinking dot on a grid, and above it flashes the question: “Send Needle to current location?”

He did this.

Killian did this.

Before they left - he thought of this. Made sure she’d get out, no matter what happened, no matter where she was, no matter---

Emma’s breath stops as she pushes YES, and she looks up. At thirteen pairs of eyes.

“There’s not enough room.”

It hits her like a ton of bricks.

“The Needle seats two. I think-- I think we can push it to six, but we can’t----”

“You’ll be five.” It’s Ruby who speaks. “You and the victim--” her chin points towards Killian, “and the lovebirds---” she grins as she winks at Elsa and Liam, “and this piece of filth.” The tip of her shoe swings into Gold’s shoulder.

Emma draws breath to argue, but Ruby cuts her off.

“Don’t argue. I got the rest.”

They look at each other for an eternity. Neither one of them blinks.

Finally Emma growls and shakes her head. “I’m coming back for you.” She holds the handheld out to Ruby. “Take this. Keep it safe. And I am coming back.”

Ruby smiles. “You better,” she whispers, and then straightens up. “All right. Let’s get you up to the roof and then blow this joint.”

  
  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

  
  


Kilian opens his eyes to a white room and sunlight.

And Emma’s warm body, pressed along the length of his right side, her arm thrown across his middle. Her hair a mess, her clothes what seem to be hospital scrubs, her breathing slow and even. She is fast asleep.

His brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. His thoughts are slow and languid and he feels no pain. Just a sense of immense relief that Emma is here, next to him.

Wherever ‘here’ is.

His arm comes up, almost of its own volition, and his fingers run along Emma’s neck, and shoulder, and finally her cheek. She makes a low sound and turns into his touch, but she doesn’t wake up.

He counts four different stickies on the inside of his wrist.

He tries to remember. It’s harder than it should be.

The one thing he sees before his mind’s eye with blinding clarity is Emma smashing a--- leg of pork?-- into Walsh’s smug face. 

And then her arms around him, strong and sure and unwavering.   
She has changed so much, his NO/GO.

No, not NO/GO, never NO/GO, never again.

His  _ Emma. _

Fierce, and strong, and unbent, unbroken, and---

his. 

  
  


They need to go. Far, far away from here.

They need to leave, now that they have Gold-- wait. Did they capture Gold?

He tries to recall names and faces and snippets of dialogue, and he can’t remember, doesn’t know how he got here, doesn’t know where he is,

except safe

safe, in a bed, with Emma beside him, and---

“Liam!” It comes out louder than he means it to. His voice is raspy, but it carries, and his hand tightens on Emma’s arm.

Her eyes open. They blink, focus on him--- and then she smiles. It’s so lovely, to see her smile, to see her smile at him. Like they are the only two people in the world.

And then her eyes cloud over, sadness creeps into them, and her brows furrow.

“Killian.” It’s a small whisper, and now there are tears in her eyes. “Killian, I’m so sorry.”

Why is she crying? She shouldn’t be crying. She shouldn’t be sad. She is here, in one piece, and so is he, more or less. They’re alive and safe in a bed, and as soon as his brain starts to function properly again, they will get out of here and go far, far away. 

To live.

“Killian,” her voice sounds broken now, and tears are rolling down her cheeks in earnest. “They couldn’t save it. I’m so sorry. They tried. Dr. Whale tried, but he couldn’t, and----”

“What?” He has to force the word past the lump in his throat, because she is starting to breathe too fast, and he wants her to calm down, and not hyperventilate. “Emma, what?”

She chews on her lip while tears keep falling in big drops, until he’s afraid she’ll draw blood, but then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and it comes out in a rush. 

“Your hand, Killian, they couldn’t save your hand. What Walsh did, it---- there was too much damage, and I---”

It comes flooding back with a bang. Hanging strapped to that contraption against the wall, and Gold, and Walsh, and the knife in his hand. 

There should be pain. 

He should be  _ gutted _ .

But everything is muted, remote, unreal. He’s watching the memory, observing it, like a window into someone else’s life.

But Emma’s distress comes through loud and clear, unfiltered, a sharp, bright note of anguish, and he doesn’t want that. Muddled as he is, he knows he doesn’t want her to suffer.

She shakes her head and sits up, wipes her nose on her sleeve, and wraps her fingers around his right wrist. The wrist to which a hand is still attached.

He lets his eyes wander slowly, slowly to his left. All he sees is white. White where his arm is, white where his hand should be, nothing but white. 

And lines, attached to IV bags, hanging off stands, next to his bed.

Disappearing into the endless white.

_ Fuck _ .

“I should have killed him sooner.” Her shoulders slump. “If I’d gotten him faster, maybe you---”

“No.” He has to stop her, sluggish thoughts and raspy throat be damned. She keeps talking in a loop, her voice guilty, defeated, her words variations on  _ I did not get to you in time, _ and he pulls his wrist from her grasp, wraps her hand in his instead. “Emma, please. Please,  _ stop _ .”

The last word is loud, and she looks up as her voice trails off.

“Emma.” He clears his throat again. “Don’t, love. Just please - please don’t.”

He can’t elaborate, because in his head thoughts are still colliding and then veering off track, like the fact that they’re alive, and he’s no longer whole, and Walsh is dead, and he lost a limb, and she saved his life,

again, fucking AGAIN,

and now feels guilty for that,  _ for that _ , he can’t----

His brain is still dulled by medication, so he can’t untwist all the pathways his thoughts are barreling down, all he can say is, “Don’t love. Please don’t.”

And she nods.

She wipes her face again with her sleeve and nods. Her tears are still falling, but her breathing evens out. 

“You called me love.” It’s a thin little whisper. “You just---- even after I failed you, you called me love?”

Oh, all the things he wants to say.

How she did not fail him, how she saved him again, how she is the bravest and toughest and best person he has ever met and how his love isn’t nearly enough, but he has nothing else to give her.

“Not failed. Saved me. Saved us.”

She starts to shake her head in protest, and he lets his hand slide down to her wrist. Pulls it close and starts to tap against it.

The same rhythm he tapped in the Needle right before the mission, back when he knew, but had not yet told her.

The same rhythm he tapped on the walkway, the catwalk, and under the booth.

The same rhythm he will tap for the rest of his life.

“Is this, is this code?” 

He smiles at her and nods. 

“That code you were doing with Robin?”

“Morse.” He can feel his smile widening. She’s smart, his Emma. Well, of course she is. She’s a teacher. And a survivor. A fighter, a lifesaver, and the love of his life.

Man, those stickies are doing a number on him.

“What does it mean?” Her voice is quiet, but it plucks him from his meandering thoughts, back into the present.

He looks at her and pulls her wrist up to his lips. He kisses it slowly, and she sighs. And smiles. Wide and happy, even with tear tracks down her cheeks. 

Then he taps again, deliberate, long and short and short and long. His rhythm.

Their rhythm.

“Three letters,” he says, out loud as he taps them. “I - L - Y.”

Her answering smile is blinding, even though tears spring to her eyes again, and she leans forward to kiss him. Her lips are soft and so gentle, and her “I love you, too.” sounds so warm and lovely, breathed against the shell of his ear, and then they both jump at the hard knock on the door.

  
  


A man enters, tall and slightly unsteady, his hair nearly shaved down to stubble, his face and neck and arms littered with scars. Holding the man’s hand is a gorgeous blonde who looks tougher than nails and smarter than a whip. Both are wearing hospital scrubs, just like Emma, with stockinged feet and no shoes.

The man’s eyes dart from Killian’s face to Emma’s and back, apprehensive, uncertain, but Killian is neither.

_ I know your face, brother. _

Emma says, “You're here!” at the same time he manages to grind out “Liam?”, and the man says, “Killian?”, and everyone stops for a moment, bewildered, until Elsa says, “What the fuck?”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


Inside the room at the top of L12, Mary Margaret and David look at each other. And then at Agent Locksley. And then at Dr Whale. Both men are standing before them, trying not to fidget, which is par for the course for the doctor, but unusual in an agent.

Everything is unusual about this, down to the fact that Locksley showed up here a moment ago, Whale in tow, in clear breach of all protocol, and demanded to see them at once. He went so far as to threaten Leroy, who is working the front room and the door. That’s technically a court martial. 

“I’m sorry.” Locksley sounds like he  _ is _ sorry, far, far below the current of anxious excitement he’s caught in. “I meant your assistant no harm.”

Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow and thinks of Leroy dangling against a wall in a choke-hold. 

“Clearly,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “But if you think that is a good way to get my attentio----“

“You have to see this.” Locksley looks stricken as he says it. Like he can’t believe himself that he dared to interrupt her. He holds out a digisheet with a shaking hand while Whale cringes, fingers clenching and unclenching nervously.

Mary Margaret is so taken aback, she wordlessly pulls the sheet from his hand. It’s a BlackSheet, covert, empty until unlocked by a dedicated thumbprint, but they are Rulers. Their thumbprint unlocks everything.

And so Mary Margaret presses her thumb to the top right corner, and waits for the information to come up.

She reads for a full minute in silence, before she says, “David”, and sways.

  
  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


They may as well not be in the room, she and Elsa. 

Next to her Killian is pale and shaking a little, and across from her Liam has pulled his arm from Elsa’s grasp and is just as pale, and just as unsteady.

Emma knows Liam, because she knows Elsa, because Elsa and Liam have been  _ one _ since the moment they laid eyes on each other, despite all the odds; Emma knows Liam because she has been lookout for them both, through all their stolen moments, has covered and misdirected and lied for them.

Liam used to bring them food - all of the tricksies, back when the Feeding Frenzies started. It was never much, but it was all he was able to afford and smuggle in, and Elsa cried the first time he did. Cried every time he did.

He brought them books.

He gave Ruby the codes to roam outside, the codes Emma took and used to run.

Yes, Emma knows Liam.

But not like this.

Not like Killian knows him.

There is something bigger here, something far, far outside of her experience, and she watches as Liam takes one step after another, walks up to the hospital bed and the man shivering beside her, looks at Killian’s face, skin pale as his sheets and eyes impossibly wide and when Liam again whispers, “Killian?” he just nods.

And then Liam bends forward and hugs Killian, who hugs back, and Emma quietly slides off the bed, because this moment is not about her in the least.

She looks at Elsa as she walks over to her, Elsa who somehow looks both shell-shocked and understanding, and then looks back at the two men, sees their shoulders shaking in exactly the same way. 

Finally Liam pulls back and surreptitiously wipes his eyes, and Killian looks over at Emma.

“Come here, love,” he says, smiling. “Come here and meet my brother.”

Brother.

Of  _ course _ .

Emma grins, and Liam says, “we’ve met”, and she walks over to Killian, and Elsa walks over to Liam, who puts his arm around her and says, “This is my brother, Killian,” and at that moment the door opens and Regina marches in, Agent Booth in tow, and murder in her eyes.

Emma takes Killian’s hand and he squeezes it, hard. This cannot be good.

“Liam Jones?” It is quiet and furious. Liam nods, and Regina repeats, “Liam  _ Jones _ ?” He nods again. 

Regina turns. “And Elsa---”

“Elsa Jones.” Emma and Liam both sputter, but Elsa does not take her eyes from Regina’s face, matches her gaze evenly and without blinking, her chin held high and her body ramrod-straight.

Regina looks at her for a long time before she says, “All right. Elsa Jones.” and Emma swears Liam’s eyes become unnaturally bright.

“And you,” Regina hisses, turning to Emma. “Like you haven’t caused enough trouble.” 

Emma doesn’t know what to say to that at all, so she remains quiet.

Looks at Killian, who is still sitting up, pale and sweaty and definitely worried, squeezing her hand in spasms. She pulls his hand up to her heart, kisses it, whispers, “shhhhhhh”, and Killian looks up at her, tries to smile. Emma can clearly see that he is not altogether present in this moment, and gently rubs the collection of stickies on his wrist.

He just lost a  _ hand _ . He probably shouldn’t even be awake yet.

She wishes she knew his Morse code, wishes she could tap  _ ILY _ against his wrist. Or  _ Don’t Worry _ . Or  _ I’m Sorry _ . Somehow this whole mess feels like her fault.

Regina taps her handheld for a few moments and then looks up. “All three of you not currently in a hospital bed, come with me.”

Four people gasp simultaneously.

Killian says, “You’re not taking her,” while Liam says, “Where to?”, while Emma says, “Why?”, and Elsa remains silent, clasping Liam’s arm in a vice grip and shifting her stance so that she is slightly behind him.

Next to Regina, Agent Booth drops into a loose fighting stance and extends his telescope baton.

Regina’s eyes narrow to slits. “May I remind you, all of you, that you are NO/GOs, every last one of you, and that you have no rights up here, none, save for those we grant you.”

Agent Booth switches the baton to his left hand. His right hand now lies against his thigh, right below his gun holster. Which is open.

Killian’s hand tightens around Emma’s to the point of pain.

Regina lifts her chin, opens the door behind her. “I am not throwing you in Holding just yet, but I  _ will _ debrief you, and I’m going to do so right now.”

She nods at the four people standing still as statues across from her.

“Now, you can walk with me to Interrogation, or you can be carried there, unconscious.” Her eyes are flat and indifferent. “It makes no difference to me.”

Emma turns to Killian and oh, he looks bad. It hurts her heart. 

“He needs a doctor.”

Regina shrugs. “He’ll get a doctor as soon as we’ve left.”

“We’ll go.” Emma looks at Liam and Elsa, sees them both nod.

“Don’t Emma, please---” Killian’s voice is thin and thready, and Emma’s not sure he has grasped the situation at all. He pulls her hand, pulls her towards him. “Please don’t go.”

She gives him a soft kiss, strokes his sweaty cheek. “I have to go, I  _ have _ to. And you have to see a doctor. But I will be back.”

“Do you promise?” The look he gives her. She could shatter from this look alone.

She leans her forehead against his. “I promise.” Her voice is a whisper and his eyes close. “I promise, my love.”

“Enough.” Regina’s voice cuts through the moment, but Killian is already going back under, and Emma gently lets him sink down on the bed. His eyes remain closed, but his breathing is normal. 

Regina walks through the door and August turns and points, waiting for them to follow.

“We don’t even have shoes,” Elsa says.

Emma pats her back. “They never give you shoes.”

  
  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


Agent Booth watches as Commander Mills divides the three subjects into separate interrogation rooms and then lets them wait.

All the rooms border this wall, a one-way glass sheet he is currently facing in the center room. It is designed so every person in this very center can observe any and all interrogations simultaneously.

But there no other agents present, it’s just him and the commander, and that is unusual.

Not unusual enough for August to worry, but not regulation. Agent Locksley should be here at the very least; he’s the chief interrogator.

But Agent Locksley is nowhere to be seen, and neither is anyone else save the grunt at the front desk. It’s a bit unsettling.

Just a bit.

All three subjects are sitting very still. The man is looking straight at the one-way mirror, unmoving. He is obviously used to high-pressure situations. The long-haired blonde fidgets, the short-haired one wrings her hands. Both look cold. They are not used to pressure like the man, that much is obvious, but are handling their nerves well.

“Agent Booth” Regina finally looks up from her handheld and speaks, clipped and impatient. “You are here to observe and witness, and nothing else, is that clear?”

He nods. No interaction, no official report. He is just a pair of eyes.

“Understood?” Regina takes off her gun holster and places it in a lock box. 

“Understood.” The day Agent Booth questions his commanding officer will be the day he quits.

“Good. I’ll start with the male. No interruptions, Agent, not for anything.”

He nods again, and Regina leaves the center room.

  
  


August has never seen the commander interrogate anyone, but he can tell she knows what she’s doing inside of ten seconds.

The way she enters the man’s room leaves no doubt as to who is in charge. Her movements are fluid and unhurried, her body language relaxed and yet precise. She sits down across from him and leans forward, equal parts menacing and conspiratorial.

“Once more for the record, you are Liam Jones, correct?” Her voice is noncommittal.

The man nods.

“I need you to confirm this verbally.”

The man shrugs and then sighs. “Yes.” Regina raises an eyebrow, and he repeats, “Yes. My name is Liam Jones.”

“Current location?”

The answer is curt. “L3. You know that.”

“Occupation?”

The man sighs. “You know that, too. Red Dragon. Unit #4927-A.”

“You don’t have a rank?”

He laughs out loud. It’s a startling sound. August flinches, but Regina doesn’t move. 

The man’s voice turns both bitter and resigned. “We’re not law enforcement. We’re not soldiers. We are crowd control. Cannon fodder. Trigger fingers. We don’t have ranks, we don’t have status. We’re entirely expendable.”

“It seems a bleak outlook,” Regina says, and raises an eyebrow. “Not the kind of thing which inspires loyalty. And if I were someone in charge, I’d think long and hard about giving guns into the hands of Expendables.” Her voice drops. “Try again, Dragon. Do better.”

The man looks up. “It pays.” He says it as if it means something. Means the difference between living and---

“And you don’t need loyalty, when you have fear on your side. Real fear.”

“Fear of what?” August can hear a small vibration in Regina’s voice. She is interested.

The man leans back. “Dissention in the ranks, mistakes, lapses in judgment - all infractions, big or small, carry the same punishment.” He holds up his hand and counts up his fingers. “1. First warning, 2. Second warning, 3. Execution. No deviation. No explaining your side. No exception.” He leans forward, drops his hand on the table, looks straight at Regina. “That kind of fear.” 

“Ah,” Regina leans back, a strange note of desire in her voice. “That I do believe.”

She is silent for a few moments. The man does not move.

When she finally speaks, her voice is back to cold nonchalance.   
“What is your relation to Agent Killian Jones?”

The man actually rolls his eyes. August draws a sharp breath, but Regina doesn’t react.

“You know that as well, Commander,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now. “Agent Jones is my brother.”

“And Elsa--- she said Jones, but I have her down as Elsa Arendelle.”

August can see the man’s jaw muscles clench. “She’s my wife. Unofficially.”

“Unofficially?”

His eyes flash. “Yes. In the sense that we’re married in all ways that count.” 

“You let your wife do the work that she does? Willingly?”

The man’s voice turns to ice. “Willing is none of what I do, commander,” he says, and August can see that behind the rigidly controlled mask is a  _ very _ dangerous man. The kind who will not let harm come to those he loves, no matter the cost to himself.

“And as for my relationship with my wife, I will not answer any questions. It is not relevant.”

“I decide what’s relevant, Dragon.”

But the man simply leans back and remains silent.

Minutes tick by. Commander Mills and her subject are locked in a battle of wills, but Agent Booth already knows that Regina will not be the victor here.

The man has all the time in the world. The commander does not.

After an interminable silence, Regina sighs, and shrugs, as if the whole exchange meant nothing. 

“Fine, we’ll deal with your wife later.”

That gets her a flick of his eyes, but no more.

“When was the last time you saw your brother?”

The man’s shoulders slump. “Fifteen years ago,” he says quietly. “Just before L3 fell.”

“How old was Killian?”

“Sixteen.” 

It sounds defeated, and Regina goes in for the kill.

“He was only sixteen? And you left him to fend for himself?”

The man hasn’t looked up once, and slumps even more. “It was only supposed to be a two-month job. It was well paid. L3 was still open.”

“L1 and L2 were already closed. Didn’t you think L3 could be next?”

The man barks a laugh. “You and I both know that 1 and 2 closed _years_ before that, right when the Rulers first took charge. There was no reason to suspect anything amiss.” His voice grows soft. “It was only going to be a few weeks.”

August gets the feeling that even now, more than a decade later, he is still trying to convince himself.

“So you went Down and left your brother behind - and then what?” Regina’s voice shows no empathy.

“I did a job for a Mr. Gold. He wanted a security detail for an ‘important negotiation’. At least that’s what he called it.”

“What kind of negotiation?”

“The kind where you take over somebody else’s dust-dealing territory and everybody ends up dead.”

“Ah.” There is satisfaction in Regina’s voice now. “You were hired muscle. Trigger finger, indeed.” She puts her hands on the table in front of the subject, aggressively suggesting just how relaxed and in control she is. August nearly smiles.

“Then why didn’t you go back when you were done?”

The man looks up. There is anguish in his eyes. “They liked my ‘performance.’ Which means they liked that I was a good shot and managed to not get myself or Mr Gold killed. And then they told me to stay. They said if I didn’t, they would go after my family. They meant it.”

“Is your brother your only family?” Commander Mills is a kitten with only a few claws showing.

The man nods. “He is.”

Suddenly a high-pitched beep, one August has never heard before, starts to wail from the wall terminal, accompanied by a flashing red light, and he runs over to it as fast as he can.

The message on the screen is clear and concise and not open to any type of interpretation, and August realizes he will have to go and get his commanding officer.

Out of an ongoing interrogation.

Right now.

His mouth is dry and his hands shake a little as he opens the door to I-3, and Regina’s head whips around.

“I told you no interruptions!”

August has never seen anyone so angry, never. It takes all of his willpower, every ounce of it, to reply.

“I apologize, Commander, but I have a directive from the Rulers. All subjects to come to the Observatory immediately. You, too, Commander.”

The look Regina gives him could have disintegrated steel. She takes several deep breaths, before she gets up and pulls back her shoulders.

“Fine,” she grinds out. “Go get the girls, and follow me Upstairs.”


	14. Chapter 14

  
  


“Captain Jones.” Someone is calling his name. The voice is not familiar. “Captain Jones, can you hear me?”

He tries to swim up towards consciousness, break the surface, breathe.

He very slowly manages to open one eye. It’s painfully bright. He blinks a few times, opens the other eye as well, tries to get his bearings.

White walls. IV drip. Sunlight. Hospital.

“Captain Jones?”

The owner of the voice is a nurse. Her name tag says DOROTHY. She pulls a pen light from her pocket and shines it in each eye. It hurts.

Then she smiles and lifts a syringe, adds something to the drip of his IV bag. “You’re a piece of work, Captain, but we’ll get you up and running.”

“Get me what?”

She is not making any sense, and the feeling of cotton around his brain has not lessened in the least.

“Do you know a Lieutenant Locksley?” Her voice is equal parts no-nonsense professionalism and kindness.

All Killian can do is nod.

“Yeah, well, he was adamant about you joining him Upstairs.” The nurse gives him an annoyed grin. “You’ve been requested on L12, Captain, in the Throne Room, and I told Lieutenant Locksley you really needed rest, but he would not take no for an answer.”

Is it his imagination, or are things starting to become slightly less muddled? He was able to follow her entire sentence.

“So I’m jacking you up on everything I have.” Her frown is definitely annoyed now. “I mean, I’m only responsible for your well-being, and I’ve only been doing this job for a decade, so what do I know?”

Killian laughs. He understands her frustration.

_ He understands. _

“Ah.” The nurse’s voice is soft, quiet. “There you are, Captain. Welcome back.”

“Robin wants me on L12? In the Throne Room? Are you absolutely sure?”

The nurse pulls a handheld from her pocket and shows Killian an order of summons. It’s unmistakable. He’s going to the see the Rulers.

“I feel better.” He sits up, and the world stays steady. “Whatever you just gave me, it’s working. How long is it going to last?”

The nurse hands him three stickies. “Two hours, three at most. The moment you start to feel woozy or in pain, put on one of these----” Her voice trails off as both of them look at Killian’s hands. And the fact that there is only one.

“I’ll manage,” he chokes out, and then banishes all thoughts of his missing limb. Because the time for dealing with that is not now.

Right now is the time to go and rescue everyone he loves.

“I need a favor.” Killian slides off the bed and nearly topples the IV stand. He realizes the lines are still running into his arm, and that he is wearing a hospital gown. He looks up at the nurse, who is quirking an eyebrow. “Actually, I’m going to need several.”

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


The room is large, with high ceilings and enormous windows. Emma feels dwarfed by them, out of place, out of her depth. The fact that this is most likely the reaction this room produces in everyone who enters, and entirely intentional, does not help.

She feels insignificant here.

Worthless.

Small.

At the center of the room are several chairs, arranged in a semi-circle, facing a tall table, almost like a lectern, on a dais. Emma has read about courtrooms in books, and this, this is how she pictured them.

This. Is a trial.

Two chairs on the left of the semicircle are separated from the others, and seated in these, handcuffed and clothed in identical orange overalls, are Cora and Gold. Neither one looks nearly as afraid as Emma thinks they should, and it makes Emma shudder. They should be afraid. Why are they not afraid?

Elsa leans over and whispers, “Breathe, Emma,” into her ear, but it’s not that easy.

It feels like there is a very fine line here, between the freedom to live and the freedom to die.

Behind the tall table -  _ judge’s bench _ , her brain supplies needlessly - stands a woman with close-cropped dark hair and a blonde man beside her. These must be the Rulers. Emma has heard of them the way people hear of the bogeyman - an unsettling presence, surreal, intangible, and never quite believed to exist. But the people in front of her are unmistakably real. Their unsmiling faces look determined and unforgiving and full of purpose. It is nothing if not supremely intimidating. These two will suffer neither fools nor lies.

Standing in front of them is Commander Mills, back straight in regulation posture, but still somehow managing to look condescending, as if all of this, including the status of the two Rulers before her, is beneath her. 

Next to the commander are Lieutenant Locksley and the doctor who treated her each time she and Killian returned from their missions.  _ Dr. Whale _ , her brain supplies again. The lieutenant looks alert, and yet strangely relaxed, if there was such a thing, but the doctor is a bundle of nerves, fidgeting like her students on oral report day. Suddenly Emma misses her old life on L6 so much it hurts.

Physically.

Literally.

For a long moment she’s overwhelmed with a vision of herself, sitting on the comfortable couch of her cozy apartment, drinking tea and grading papers, Killian’s head in her lap, sound asleep. Memory mixes with desire and hope and she wants this so much, her insides twist in pain as tears spring to her eyes, and she makes a decision.

She will have this.

When all is said and done, she will have this, she and Killian _will have_ _this_, and she will stop at nothing to get it.

Nothing.

It’s strange how this decision settles her.

The tears recede and she lifts her chin, and next to her Elsa whispers, “Good.”

And it is good.

  
  


Agent Booth motions for the three of them to sit in the remaining chairs, and both Liam and Elsa smile at Emma as they turn to sit. 

Emma smiles back. 

“I expect you are wondering why I brought you here.” Commander Mills’ voice is cutting and commanding, and every pair of eyes in the room instantly focuses on her. She takes her time, looks around, and manages to look both neutral and extremely satisfied. “It is my privilege to charge each and every one of you with treason,” her hand describes an arc which encompasses every person seated on a chair, from Gold to Emma, “and decide whether your punishment is relocation, permanent incarceration, or the chair.”

Her voice leaves no doubt which option she prefers.

“So without further ado, let’s move to the reading of the charges, in order to----”

The door at the far end of the room bangs open, and all eyes turn towards it, even Regina’s. A short, grumpy-looking man walks in and makes room for two people to enter. One of them is a young man whose once-closely shaven hair is growing into shaggy stubble. His orange jumper does not impede his swagger in the least as he looks around as if he owns the room and everyone in it, and Emma can feel his smirk all the way to her bones. It is Will as she expects him to be, in all situations, and it feels good.

Emma also notices that his hands are not cuffed, and that feels like a strange promise.

Behind Will is a man with dark hair and purple shadows under his eyes, hastily dressed in hospital scrubs, his left arm in a large, rigid sling. He shuffles more than he walks, but when he spots Emma he smiles, brighter than the sun.

Emma can feel warmth spread throughout her entire body at that smile, at the fact that he is here, at the fact that he brought Will, at the hope that surges where nothing but fear was before, and she breaks rank, runs towards him, and hugs him, carefully but  _ hard _ .

And then several things happen at once.

Killian whispers “Are you all right, love?” as his good arm wraps around Emma and she nods, as behind them feet shuffle and chairs scrape floors, as she can hear Will say, “Isn’t this an auspicious gathering of important people,” and then Commander Mills’ voice cuts through the din like a scalpel.

“What is the meaning of this? Lieutenant, remove these two at once.” 

Underneath its steel core, Emma can hear something she has never heard in the commander’s voice before. 

Panic. 

Killian and Will and Robin all immediately start to protest and explain, only to be cut off by a wooden mallet rapping on a table top --  _ gavel, it’s called a gavel  _ \-- and an entirely new voice sounds out, soft and silky and in complete control.

“ _ Quiet _ .” The woman with the close-cropped dark hair raps her mallet one last time and then puts it down. “I need each of you to please take a seat.” She nods at the grumpy-looking man, who starts to pull more chairs into the center of the room and then looks from Regina, to Robin, to Whale. “You, too, Commander. Lieutenant. Doctor. Sit.”

There is scuffling and shuffling and Emma does not let go of Killian, not for a moment. She keeps her arm wrapped tightly around his waist, pulls his chair next to hers, takes his hand as they sit. When she looks up, she can see both Elsa and Liam smiling at her, and when Killian wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side, she closes her eyes for a moment and sighs in relief.

He is here.

That’s all that matters.

He drops a kiss to her hair and whispers, “Steady, love. It’ll all be all right, I promise.”

And she believes him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Regina’s voice is a venomous hiss, and Emma opens her eyes in time to see both Gold and Cora  _ smirk _ . Cora opens her mouth and Regina rounds on her with a look that should have reduced her to ash, and says, “Not a word out of you, Capture, not if you value your life.” And then she turns back towards the female Ruler.

“What are you doing? We are here to execute these NO/GOs for treason.”

And the woman with the short dark hair smiles. Emma has never seen anything so frightening in her entire life.

“Actually that’s not what we are here for at all,” she says, and points at an empty chair. “Now have a seat, Commander Mills, because this  _ is _ about you.”

  
  
  


-/- 

  
  


A long time ago, when Killian was a boy still afraid of the dark, Liam used to tell him stories. They were full of knights and horses and treasure and magic, and Killian loved them and thought his brother was the most brilliant person who ever lived. And he loved his brother, loved him and admired him and feared for him when he left at night and did not return until the small hours of the morning, exhausted and sad, his movements all stiff and cumbersome.

As Killian got older this balance shifted.

Killian found out that these brilliant stories were actually just the retelling of books Liam had read, and as his brother turned into The Person Who Always Says No, to everything, the stories stopped, and so did the worry, replaced by resentment and anger and finally rage. When Liam disappeared it took Killian four whole days to notice and another two to go and fill out a missing persons report.

He looks over at Liam, sees his scarred hand holding on to Elsa’s, and realizes with a clarity sharpened by distance and loss that his brother is only five years older than he is, that Liam was only fourteen when he took responsibility for a nine-year-old, that it was too much to ask of him, too much to ask of anyone, and that no matter what happens here today, Liam was the hero of all of Killian’s stories.

And that the journey that brought them all here, each of them, Elsa and Emma and Liam, is a hero’s journey, just like the stories his brother used to tell him, and that they are all heroes, all of them, except Killian himself.

He has done nothing except make the easy choices and the wrong choices and cause more loss and grief than all of them put together.

He remembers pushing Emma up against a wall in Holding, and telling her that her name did not matter, that she was expendable, and that’s just the least of his infractions..

The rest of his life may not be enough to atone.

Killian can feel Emma squeeze his hand, and she looks up, worried, because of course she can feel his distress. Her body is warm and solid and real, along the length of his side.

He does not deserve her.

But he loves her and he is not letting her go, not ever.

No matter what happens.

He doesn’t know why his thoughts are taking this detour now, when it’s so much more important to focus on what lies ahead, but a small part of him is glad that they did.

He looks over at Will, who grins and then nods, and feels himself settle.

They will all make it out of this alive.

  
  


In front of him Mary Margaret Nolan looks at her husband.

“David,” she says quietly. “Why don’t you start us off?”

  
  


David Nolan lifts up a BlackSheet and unlocks it with his thumbprint. “It all started after the faked pardon,” he says, and Killian watches the commander cringe. As well she might. He never suspected his commanding officer to go  _ that _ far. “Originally I went into the Deep Archive to find out more information on---” his eyes fall on Emma, and he has to swallow and clear his throat-- “on the NO/GO in question.” 

Killian feels Emma stiffen, and squeezes her shoulder in reassurance.

“I found very little. Then I started looking for information on Commander Mills, because her chip had quite obviously been hacked, even though that should have been impossible. The commander is privy to some very sensitive information and I wanted to see if any of it had leaked.”   
He pauses for a moment, taps the BlackSheet. “It had not. But I realized something exceedingly odd.”

He looks at Regina, whose lips narrow to a thin line.

“There is very little official information on you, Commander. Born November 11th, 2079 on L4, working-class parents, public education. You graduated from high school in 2098 with very little fanfare, and were accepted into the Law Enforcement Academy.

Where you suddenly started to  _ thrive _ . You turned out to be a stellar student, graduated with highest honors, and made your way through the ranks in record time.” 

David looks up, a small, hard smile on his lips. Chills run down Emma’s spine at the sight of it. When he goes on his voice is soft. And quiet. And dangerous. 

“But it’s strange.” His smile grows harder still. “Everything from the Academy onward is completely legit. While everything that comes before it---” his eyes narrow-- “is a lie. Starting with this.”

He swipes his hand across the sheet, and the entire front portion of the high table becomes a screen. On it appears a birth certificate.

_ Regina Mills.  _

_ Father: unknown.  _

_ Mother: Cora Mills. _

The utter lack of surprise on every single person’s face except Agent Booth’s is somehow louder than an actual reaction. Out of the corner of his eye, Killian sees both Cora and Gold smirk, while Regina looks disgusted and both of the Rulers look puzzled.

“Interesting.” David’s eyes narrow. “I thought that would get a bigger reaction.”

“Fuck that.” Commander Mills gets up and rounds on their ragtag group. “These traitors all know because my mother cannot keep her fucking mouth shut.” She turns to glare at Cora. “But what does it matter? So the Capture is my mother. So I got my  _ mother  _ out of L3. What’s important is not my relation to the Capture.” Killian can see Cora grin at the Commander’s transparent attempt to distance herself from the events. “The important thing is that I got her Up because she had knowledge on Gold. Which helped us capture him.” She turns to both Rulers and even from behind Killian can see her utter disdain for the entire proceedings. “So I don’t see a conflict of interest. And I don’t see what the fuck you’re playing at. Or accusing me of.”

“Commander Mills. Sit. Down.” David’s voice hardens like flint, and Regina actually complies. “Every one of your childhood records crumbles to dust once checked against the Deep Archive. The schools you claim to have gone to have neither enrollment nor attendance records for you, nothing save your certificate of graduation. And your  _ parents _ \--” he leans forward and every single person in the room stops breathing-- “are an octogenarian couple who died the year you were born.” 

David absent-mindedly taps the sheet in front of him, and records start to scroll across the big screen. 

“So I wonder, Commander Mills,” he says, his voice soft. “I wonder. Who are you really?”

Regina huffs and rolls her eyes, but Killian can feel Emma draw a sharp breath and straighten up. When he takes her hand, it is clammy and cold. Emma is afraid.

He follows her line of vision and sees she is staring at Gold.

Who is laughing.

_ Laughing. _

Silent and joyful and sinister and entirely unsettling.

He pulls Emma against him, slowly rubs her back until her breathing evens out and she relaxes into his embrace. She looks up at him and smiles, and for this one moment they are the only two people on the planet. Her smile is hopeful and warm, and just for him, and it fills him with love, with pride, and he wishes they were anywhere else.

Alone.

With a bed.

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


He should not be here. That is the thought echoing through Agent Booth’s brain on an endless loop. Ever since Commander Mills dragged him into Captain Jones’ hospital room a few hours ago, he has thought this one thought.

He should not be involved in any of this.

He should not be here.

He’s a grunt, a nobody, who works the desk in Interrogation and fills out paperwork, and he has nothing, nothing at all to do with the caliber of chess pieces currently moving across the board.

This is so far above his pay grade. What will happen to him once the people in this room, all of them who outrank him to infinity, realize this?

He should not be here.

But he cannot look away. And besides, he has not been dismissed.

  
  


“Who are you, indeed.” Mary Margaret Nolan says quietly, and August sees Commander Mills draw breath, her eyes livid, her entire bearing geared towards a fight, but Lieutenant Locksley cuts her off before she even gets started.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice equal parts deference and determination, “I believe we can shed some light on the situation.” He points at Commander Mills, at Cora, at Gold. “All of it.”

Mary Margaret nods. “Since you’re the one who brought us---” Her voice cuts out briefly as she looks at Emma, and she has to clear her throat. “I can’t wait to hear the rest of your story.”

Agent Booth shudders.

Heavily implied beneath those thoroughly encouraging words is,  _ make it good, or else _ . Ruler Nolan has no patience for those who waste her time.

Lieutenant Locksley calmly gets up, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, and looks at Captain Jones, who simply nods, and then pulls his NO/GO closer to whisper in her ear. She smiles at him and Agent Booth feels a stab of pure envy.

No one deserves to be smiled at like that. He never has been.

“Here’s the man who can tell you everything,” Locksley’s voice cuts through August’s musings, and the guy who used to work the desk in Holding gets up and walks to the center of the room with a swagger in his step, despite his bright orange overalls. 

His grin is knowing, and amused, and entirely insolent.

The commander hisses, “I will not listen to a felon!” and is silenced with one look from David Nolan. Cora and Gold look both fascinated and uninterested in the proceedings, the man with the scars and the blonde that came up from L3 are spellbound.

Captain Jones rubs his NO/GO’s back gently, quietly, as she puts her head on his shoulder, and once again it occurs to Agent Booth that here are two people who simply found each other. Jealousy stabs him hard before he manages to concentrate on the grinning man before them. Scarlet. Right. Will Scarlet.

“I bet you’re wondering why I brought you here today,” Will says, pure, unadulterated insouciance as several people around him sputter and Locksley simply rolls his eyes. “But Mr Nolan actually brought up a very interesting point back there.”

Will grows serious and looks at both Rulers. “Commander Mills’ records are definitely… let’s call it ‘lacking’, shall we?”

He shakes his head. “See, there I was one day, sifting the Deep Archive for dead IDs to siphon, and----”

“You did WHAT?” David Nolan’s voice is outraged, but Will remains unperturbed. 

“All those black bag operations, all those IDs you trade for information, or because someone rich wants to save a relative or two, where do you think they come from? Do you think they just appear out of thin air? They have to be rooted in something real.”

Will looks hard at Captain Jones as he says the last bit, and the captain meets his gaze with a slight nod and squeezes his NO/GO’s shoulder, and August gets the feeling that there is much more to this story than Scarlet is letting on. Especially since the captain’s face is an open book, with all of his emotions playing out on the surface, and August shakes his head with disdain, because Jones should have failed out of the agent program during boot camp with his resounding lack of detachment, not promoted up the ranks. It’s a travesty.

“We trade IDs for information?” Mary Margaret’s voice cuts Will’s levity like a scalpel, and all eyes go to her. “We just let rich people  _ buy _ their relatives Up?” The look she gives Commander Mills is  _ lethal _ .

The commander’s face does not move a muscle.

“Oh come off it.” Will is actually chuckling. “You can’t possibly be this naive.”

And Mary Margaret Nolan--- says nothing. Just shakes her head and motions for him to go on.

“Anyway, there I was, sifting the Deep Archive restricted section for dead IDs---” David opens his mouth and Will smirks. “I can feel your next question, and you should know I’m a bit of a genius when it comes to code.”

Every single person in the room rolls their eyes.

Every one.

Will is not fazed in the least. “And as I’m cruising the data stacks I come across the commander’s high school diploma, which I look up, because, well, I want to know how she did in school, mostly. Curious, you know?” He turns to Regina. “And the interesting tidbit is that the diploma is utterly average, but also, that there are no other report cards. At all. Whatsoever.” He raises an eyebrow as he levels her with a glare. “Which is impossible. So I start to  _ dig _ .”

He turns back to the Rulers. “The lack of information is staggering. It’s unprecedented. And I keep coming up against one thing: If these records are fake, where are the real ones? Because the Deep Archive does not have a delete function.”

He looks over at the group of people hanging on his every word. “You quite literally  _ cannot  _ delete any files from the Deep Archive. It is set up to preserve  _ everything _ . Not even the Rulers can delete files.” He smiles. “But-- the Rulers can  _ move  _ them.” He turns back to Regina. “And that is what you did, didn’t you. Moved them all. To your chip.”

The way the commander can control her reactions is impressive. Her face betrays nothing.

Will grins again. “You bribed the guy who wrote your encryption, didn’t you. Bribed him or threatened him or whatever, until he hacked himself into Ruler clearance and transferred all your actual records, every last one of them. And then you--- what did you do with him then?” Will’s eyes grow sharp and all the amusement leaves his face, all at once. “I bet you didn’t kill him. I bet you never got your hands dirty. Either way, he conveniently vanished, didn’t he.”

The last words he spits with venom in his voice, and Regina’s eyes flicker for a brief moment.

“You’re a snake, Commander Mills, and it’s time people found out.”

Will straightens back up and turns to face the Rulers once more. “So, yes, I went ahead and hacked the commander’s chip.” He smiles. “You see, I was already familiar with her encryption code.”

David sputters, “How?”, but Will just shakes his head.

“That’s not important, really. What’s important is that stored on the commander’s chip is a mountain of  _ very _ interesting information. There’s a lot about to come at you, but please save your questions to the end.” He winks at David and holds out his hand. “May I have that sheet, please? I work better with visual aids.”

David hands over the BlackSheet wordlessly, and doesn’t even comment when Will unlocks it with his own thumbprint. The birth certificate once again shows up on the screen and then Will pulls out a handheld and taps it briefly.

“Now then, let’s complete this first, shall we?” He smirks and touches the sheet to his handheld. Onscreen the birth certificate changes.

First, the date switches from 2079 to 2076.

And then the blank space fills to list a father.

Rumple T. Gold.

  
  


-/-

  
  


This revelation lands like a concussion bomb and the room erupts into screaming voices, until Locksley finally yells, “QUIET!” and shocks everyone into silence.

“Thanks mate.” Will gives Locksley a wicked smile and nods at the Rulers. “There’s so much more.”

Mary Margaret and David look shell-shocked and Regina like she’s going to murder Will with her bare hands. Cora and Gold are wearing identical evil grins, and everyone else’s jaw is simply hanging wide open.

Will shakes his head and simply keeps talking. “Once I found this birth certificate, I had a whole different last name, and once I had  _ that _ , it was easy.”

He taps the handheld again, and records start to scroll up the screen.

“Turns out Regina  _ Gold _ was born on L3 on November 11th _ , 2076 _ .” He leans forward and winks at the commander. “No wonder you were so very good at the Academy. Being three years older than everyone else.” Then he straightens back up, clearly enjoying the attention. “She bounced a lot between schools, but didn’t graduate from any of them. Until she suddenly showed up on L12 in 2093.”

The records stop scrolling and Mary Margaret gasps. It lists an employment contract between a Ms Lucas and one Regina Gold.

“No,” she breathes.

“Yes.” Will’s voice turns unexpectedly gentle. “Regina was working for you 30 years ago, when she was just a teenager. She worked for your nanny, to be exact.” Will hands the Rulers the digisheet, and goes on, his voice still soft, and kind. “Your daughter disappeared on August 13th, 2093. She was six months old. Regina Gold disappeared the same day. Ms Lucas filled out a missing persons report for her.” Will’s voice hardens. “And then Regina  _ Mills _ suddenly appears out of nowhere three years later, as she enters the Academy. And starts her meteoric rise to fame and success.”

This bomb causes no concussion.

The room is deathly silent.

Nobody moves. August can’t breathe.

And then Regina leans forward. 

“What do you know.” Her voice could cut glass. “What do you know, Will Scarlet, other than records and rumors?” She looks up at the Rulers. “Yes, I took your daughter all those years ago. And I _ saved her life _ .”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All you lovely, wonderful people reading this -- did you see?  
There is only one more chapter to go!  
YOU HAVE ALMOST MADE IT!!!


	15. Chapter 15

Emma’s mind is blank. She can’t think anymore. She can’t hear.   
She is no longer really in the room.

It’s as if she can see threads of energy and revelation being pulled in every direction, but none of them actually touch her.

She is no one, floating through time and space while life is happening outside of her, and it is peaceful, and numb, and nothing really matters.

“Love?”

His voice whispers into her ear and pierces the fog, and reality comes screaming back at her.

  
  


“You did what?” David’s voice is lethal.

His wife next to him looks murderous, in a cold, calculating, absolutely merciless kind of way. Emma never  _ ever _ wants to be on that woman’s bad side.

“I saved her miserable little life,” Regina hisses, and Cora sputters a laugh.

“Coward,” she spits at her daughter. “Do not make it sound as if you did anything out of the goodness of your heart.”

Gold smirks, and Cora grins, and Regina rounds on both, and then Mary Margaret’s voice sounds out, clear and cold and commanding.

“Commander Mills. If you value your life, you had better explain yourself. Because from where I stand, you kidnapped my daughter and then went to work for my law enforcement, closing Levels and fighting an imaginary war with  _ abandon _ , in order to cover your tracks and expand your own power.”

She leans forward, and her voice drops to nearly a whisper. “You are responsible for countless casualties and perhaps cold-blooded murder, so let me make this perfectly clear: Your future depends on your explanation.”

The room goes completely quiet, and Emma notices that every single person is holding their breath. Including her.

And then Regina stands up, slowly, at attention; her shoulders pulled back, her chin up high, and her eyes focused somewhere above the Rulers. She does not spare them a glance. 

“Gold and Cora were still working as a unit in those days,” she says, as if she were giving a mission briefing. “He was ambitious and she was cunning, and together they were ruthless in their pursuit of power. And they really hated  _ you _ .” She points her chin at Mary Margaret. “Something about your father sending them Down instead of allowing them a seat at the table. I never found out particulars.”

Emma watches the Ruler in question.

Her expression does not change.

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” It might be Emma’s imagination, but Regina suddenly sounds tired. “It was so long ago. And I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

There is definite fatigue in her voice now, and Emma thinks about what life must have been like for Regina, growing up between the rock and the hard place that are Gold and Cora. Against her will she feels a stab of compassion.

Regina was obviously an intelligent child, smart enough to see what was going on around her, and suffer both her parents’ ambition and neglect. Was she ever allowed to  _ be _ a child? 

Did she have friends and love and a childhood and wonder, or was any shred of empathy and kindness and emotion stomped into oblivion right from the start?   
Did she ever have the shred of a chance?

Killian’s arm tightens around her, and she doesn’t have to look up to know he’s thinking the exact same thing.

She sighs.

She doesn’t want the burden of feeling sympathy for Commander Mills.

“And I did get out of there,” Regina goes on, her voice once again professional and neutral. “I got a job as a waitress on L10, and the owner of the diner was---” 

Her voice drifts off. For a brief moment her face looks wistful and Emma can’t help thinking that the word which Regina is refusing to say is ‘nice’. That the owner of the diner was  _ nice _ . To her.

Then the commander clears her throat. “The owner, a woman everyone called Granny, was eventually asked to look after the Rulers’ newborn. Apparently she was an old friend of the family.” Mary Margarent blinks at those words, but does not comment. “And she took me with her. All the way to L12.”

Regina straightens up even further, her spine now bent backwards, her chin in the air. Her eyes fixed to the far wall.

“But then one day my mother---” the word ‘mother’ holds lethal amounts of disdain--- “tracked me down, all the way Up Top. And presented me with a plan.” At that, the commander’s voice loses all inflection. “Kidnap the Rulers’ daughter, blackmail them into giving Gold access to the mainframe and the Deep Archive and the override codes for all the Levels - and then kill the girl and leave her on the Rulers’ doorstep, to be found by her mother. Crush the Rulers’ spirit once and for all.”

Mary Margaret and David have stopped moving.   
Have stopped breathing.

Robin, Will, Liam, Elsa, and even Agent Booth and Dr Whale all wear the same expression of shocked disgust, every last one of them. Liam takes Elsa’s hand, and she squeezes it until her knuckles turn white, without taking her eyes off Regina. Her other hand very slowly spreads across her middle.

Thoughts start to collide in Emma’s mind, but next to her Killian takes a sharp breath and his arm tightens around her shoulders, hard. She looks up at his face and can see his jaw muscles jump, but it’s not just anger at Regina’s revelation that Cora and Gold planned the cold-blooded murder of a six-month-old.

He turns-- and in his eyes is  _ recognition _ . They grow wide as he looks at her, and he shakes his head, very slightly. And then pulls her even closer. It’s almost painful, the way his hand grips her bicep, digs into the muscle.

Regina’s eyes narrow, but her posture does not relax one iota, and her eyes stay fixed on the wall.

“They were  _ never _ going to get away with it.” She gives a snort of derision. “Their plan hinged on me not getting caught. Not getting caught taking away a screaming baby and then  _ bringing back a dead one _ .”

She rounds on Gold and Cora, suddenly, and Emma’s breath catches.

The hatred in Commander Mills’ eyes burns so bright, she looks deranged. Even Cora recoils.

“I was seventeen and you were going to make me an accomplice to murder. And then you were going to let me fry in the chair for it, because there was no way, _ no way _ I was not going to get caught and executed.  _ Executed. _ ”

She turns back to Mary Margaret and David, and looks straight at them. “So I took her. I took your precious daughter and started running down stairwells with nowhere to go. And I realized that I had nowhere to go right around L6. Which is when the damn baby started crying so hard I thought her lungs would collapse.”

“And so you left her.” Mary Margaret’s voice is quiet, but it comes as a shock. No one but the commander has spoken in so long. 

Regina nods. “And so I left her. I was already screwed. I knew I couldn’t go back. And I knew I couldn’t go down to my  _ parents _ .”

The venom in her voice is no longer tempered by rationale. Anger and hatred and wrath have broken her surface and are spilling out, unbridled, unchecked.

Emma looks at Commander Mills, ravaged, damaged, consumed by emotion she can no longer harness, and then looks up at the man beside her.

_ See, Killian? This is why your weakness is not a weakness at all. This woman’s entire life has been fury and vengeance and pain, hidden behind control and forced discipline, and it has poisoned her, twisted her, corroded her because it had no place to go except inwards. _

_ How many others are there, stuck inside emotion they can neither express nor process nor move past? Do they all end up broken like Robin, who could not see a genuine connection until you punched him in the face, or numb like Will, who thinks life is a meaningless game for which the prize is survival and the penalty is death? _

_ Or do they end up blindly following lethal orders until they become casualties of impossible missions? _

_ This is why you are better than all of them. _

_ Despite all of your training, you remember how to be human. _

Commander Mills clears her throat again, and it rips Emma from her thoughts. 

“I left her in the stairwell and saved my own skin, because nobody else was going to.”

“And then you found yourself a whole new identity and forged a new life where your past would never touch you.” Mary Margaret leans back, her eyes harder than flint. Regina meets her gaze and Emma watches both women locked in a battle of wills.

“Not quite, dearie.” The voice is melodious and unsettlingly pleasant, and it cracks through the room like a whip. All eyes snap to Gold, who slowly gets up from his chair. He takes a mocking bow in the direction of David and Mary Margaret, and the insolence of it makes shivers run down Emma’s spine. “It would be so touching if this were the end of the story.” He looks hard at Regina. “But it is not. My daughter likes power at least as much as I do myself, and she will go to great lengths to get it. Including working with me.”

Emma feels like her head might explode. As if one more revelation would tear her open from top to bottom.

It’s too much.   
_ It’s too much. _

Gold’s singsong voice goes on, relentlessly. “Now, dearie,” another mocking bow towards Mary Margaret, “how much is this information worth to you?”

_ Too much. _

_ Too much. _

_ TooMuchTooMuchTooMuchTooMuchTooMuchTooMuch. _

“Nothing.” Liam’s voice is calm and assured, and he waits as every pair of eyes settles on him. Emma can see him squeeze Elsa’s hand and smile at her, warm and so full of love. She can’t see Elsa’s face, but she can see her nod, and Liam nods back, serious and solemn.

He leans forward to kiss her, unbothered by ten people staring in unison, and then he pulls back to face the Rulers.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” he says quietly, and gets up to stand. “My name is Liam Jones, and I have been a Dragon of the Golden Circle for more than a decade. Whatever information Gold is selling, I will give you for free.”

“He knows  _ nothing _ ,” Gold snarls, and Emma, along with every single person in the room, knows that it’s a lie.

“He knows  _ everything _ .” Elsa gets up to stand next to Liam. “And what’s more, he will tell you the truth, and not twist it.”

Mary Margaret nods at David and mumbles. “See? I told you. Say nothing and hand them enough rope to hang themselves.”

David smiles at his wife like this is an old joke, well-worn and well-loved. “You just love being the smartest person in every room.”

For a moment she smiles at her husband, and then she turns to Robin.

“Lieutenant Locksley. Put  _ her _ ,” she points her chin at Regina, “into custody. Take Gold and Cora back to Holding. And then please give these two,” she nods at Liam and Elsa, “some real clothes. And some shoes.”

Emma can’t help it.   
She laughs out loud.

It skirts hysteria by such a narrow margin that Killian’s arm once again tightens around her shoulders---- and then his arm starts to tremble. 

Starts to  _ shake _ .

When she looks up at him, she sees beads of sweat on his forehead. He has gone very pale.

“Killian?” Her voice is a whisper, and he turns his head slowly, eyes glassy, lips pressed into a thin line. He reaches his trembling hand into his pocket, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated.

“Emma, can you help---” he holds out his palm, three stickies in it, and Emma tries to unpeel them with shaking fingers until a pair of calm, cool hands stills hers and Dr Whale simply takes the stickies from her, and calmly affixes them to Killian’s wrist.

Killian’s eyes close in relief and his hand stops trembling, and Whale awkwardly pats Emma’s shoulder and says, “It’s OK.”

But Emma sees that Killian is still white as a sheet, that sweat is still beading on his forehead, that tremors are still running through muscle and skin, and she looks up at the Rulers.

“Please,” she says, “he needs a bed.”

Whale next to her nods. “He does. And several IVs. He should never have come here. Why is he here?”

“I summoned him.” Robin looks crushed. Or as crushed as a seasoned agent can look. Emma can see it now. “I needed him to bring Will. He was the only one who could spring Will out of Holding. And get him his handheld.”

“That’s all right, mate.” Killian’s voice is thin and reedy, but also amused. “I can hold it over your head forever.”

“Enough.” David nods at Robin and Booth and Whale. “You all have your orders. Go.” And then he turns to Emma, and she can see he’s almost as pale as Killian.

“Ms--” his voice is unsteady, and he grips his wife’s hand. “Miss Swan, please--- please stay. We---” his voice cuts out, and he clears his throat. “We have to talk to you.”

“No.” Emma takes Killian’s hand. “I am going with him.”

“Miss Swan---” David says.

“Emma----” Mary Margaret says.

“Love,” Killian says, “I think you should stay.”

“No,” Emma repeats, and then leans her forehead against his. “I’ve heard enough, and I am going with you.”

She feels it down to the marrow of her bones, that they have to stick together, come whatever may.

She might not know everything, but she does know this.

She can feel Killian nod against her, feel his head shift and his lips brush hers.

“I love you,” he says.

And in a clear voice she replies, “I love you, too.” 

  
  
  


-/-

  
  
  


“They chose exile, all of them.”

Killian nods and motions for Robin and Will to sit. Emma is curled up with her head in his lap, half-asleep, but at those words she sits up and leans against him, sleepy and warm. He can’t not kiss her.

Hell, he can hardly keep his hands off her when they’re in the same room.

Hand.

No, hands.

Things have changed, but not that much.

“I see you got your prosthetic already,” Robin says, pointing at Killian’s left arm. At the end of which sits a bionic hand, nearly indistinguishable from the real thing, save for the silvery shine. “And it’s only been days. Nanobots?”

Killian nods.

“Look at you with the fancy treatment reserved for the Rulers and the top brass only,” he says, and Emma chokes.

“Reserved for the what now?” she asks between coughs, while Killian laughs and pats her back, and then Will’s voice sounds out like a foghorn.

“Sod your smalltalk, cretins.” He looks around as if offended by the very air in the room. “Stop fucking teasing us and spill. Killian, when did you know?”

Killian can feel his grin widen, but he doesn’t give. “When did I know what?”

“You  _ git _ ,” Will huffs in pure indignation. “When did you figure your NO/GO was the damn Rulers’ daughter?”

Emma stiffens, and Killian takes a moment to massage her neck until the worst of the tension passes.

“All right now, love?” he asks, and is rewarded with one of the lovely smiles Emma keeps just for him. What he wouldn’t give to pick her up and haul her into his bedroom right now.

Except of course that his bedroom is occupied by his brother and his sister-in-law.

He has a brother again.

_ He has a family. _

“You know when,” he finally answers, and Will’s face relaxes a fraction. “Once Regina started telling her kidnapping story, everything just fell into place. I knew Emma’s history, and all the dates lined up perfectly.” He can no longer call Regina Mills commander, because she no longer is the commander. Of anything.

“Plus, there was that damn favor you asked me to do.”

Will’s grin is threatening to split his face. “Well, I  _ am _ the resident genius.”

“What favor?” Emma’s voice is a whisper, and when Killian looks at her, she is pale, and breathing fast. He starts to rub her back, but she leans forward, eyes focused on Will, and repeats, “what favor?”

Will looks flustered for a moment, derailed by Emma’s laser focus, and Robin answers instead.

“Will had a hunch, back when he first decrypted the Command--- Regina’s chip. After he was arrested he asked Killian to check your blood.”

“Morse code?” Emma’s voice is unsteady. Killian very slowly puts his hand on her wrist.

Robin nods. “Of course. But Killian doesn’t have the clearance to do anything like that, so he came to me. And I did.”

“Check my blood….?”

“We ran a DNA test. I gave it to the Rulers right before we summoned all of you.”

Emma’s breathing hitches and Killian pulls her closer. He can feel her shaking, feel her trying to relax her breathing, can feel all her muscles tense.

“Emma,” he says, and it takes her a long moment to look up. He leans his forehead against hers, waits for her to exhale. “It’s all right, love. You can be unsettled. It would be a lot to take for anyone. Least of all someone who’s just been through your kind of trauma.”

“It’s true.” Robin smiles at Emma. “I’m amazed you’re not in a padded cell, screaming.”

Emma laughs. It’s Killian’s favorite sound in the whole world.

“I feel like I should be, sometimes,” she says, and her voice is almost steady. “But I guess we all have our baggage to carry.” She leans into Killian’s side, solid and warm. “Mine’s not so much heavier than yours. Just weirder.” 

“So what are you going to do now?” 

Killian glares at Will, but Will merely raises an eyebrow and keeps talking.

“Are they going to want you to join them Up Top? Rule the City?”

“They might.” Emma sighs. “But I don’t want to. I just--- to me they’re just people, people I just met, you know?”

Will nods, and Emma leans up, kisses the underside of Killian’s jaw, and whispers, “You know what I want.”

He does. Oh, how he loves that woman.

“So they all chose exile then, did they?”

Robin nods. “Yup. Going out per transport first thing in the morning. They’ll get dropped off in the middle of nature with only the basics several hundred miles from here.” He shrugs. “I give them a month. Tops.”

Emma reaches for Killian's hand, and shudders. “I know they deserve it,” she says quietly. “But it seems cruel, somehow.”

“It’s what they chose.” Will’s voice is hard. “They could have picked the chair. Or a life sentence here, even. Don’t waste your tears on them.”

“I know.” Her voice is a whisper now, and Killian wraps his arms around her and glares at Will again.

Who finally gets the message.

“So the rescue went well,” he says, much more cheerfully. “Got all the girls out of the Rabbit Hole, including a really tall bit of gorgeous.”

Emma laughs again, and again Killian is so glad to hear it.

“Ruby would eat you for breakfast, Scarlet.”

“And I’d happily let her,” he sighs. “But alas, when we took them to the hospital to get checked out, she encountered a nurse named Dorothy, and all my breakfast plans were foiled.”

Will is actually pouting.

Even Robin has to laugh.

“So Will,” Killian finally says, “answer me one last thing. The encryption on Regina’s chip. How did you break it? It was supposed to be impossible to penetrate.”

Will’s grin turns wistful, and for the first time since Killian has known him, his face grows soft, and suddenly he looks so very young.

“I knew the encryption,” he says. “My father wrote it.”

“ _ What? _ ” It’s Robin who snaps first, turns Will’s shoulder to face him.

Emma sits up straight, and for a moment Killian’s side feels very, very cold.

“It’s true.” Will’s smile is sad. “It was a well-paid, prestigious job, and I begged him not to take it.” He sighs. “But he did. Said it was going to get us up to L10. Said it was going to set us for life. And then he disappeared.”

Killian hears Liam’s voice again, in their kitchen on L7, saying it’s a well-paying job on L3, so much money for just a few weeks’ worth of work.

Asking Killian to please not fuck up while he’s gone.

Saying he’s sorry.

They weigh so heavy, all those things people do for the shred of a chance, for the slim prospect of a better life. For the gamble on all or nothing.

“I’m so sorry.” Emma leans forward and pats Will’s knee, and he jumps before he settles and looks at her gratefully. His hand goes to cover hers, and she takes it. 

“You must have a theory,” she goes on, and Killian can see Will cringe, but he can also see that Emma is right. Will does have a theory on how his father disappeared, and maybe it’s time he said it out loud.

Maybe it’s time to say lots of things out loud.

Maybe it’s time for agents to learn to feel things and say things and want things, maybe it’s time for all of them to be human again.

“I do.” It’s a sigh. “I checked the comm--- Regina’s records for the day he vanished. She checked out a Needle and never brought it back. The report said it crashed, unrecoverable.”

Robin and Killian both whistle, and Emma looks up, confused.

“An unrecoverable crash is one that happened on a Level that’s completely inaccessible.” Killian squeezes Emma’s shoulder, and then lets his hand slide down her back. “In those days that meant----”

“The Ground.” Will’s voice is harder than steel. “She fucking took him to the  _ Ground _ in a fucking Needle and then she  _ left him there _ .” He looks up at Emma, tears in his eyes. “So I know what you mean when you say exile is cruel, but I cannot help thinking that it’s exactly what they deserve, the lot of them.”

Emma just nods.

“I wonder what’s going to happen now.” Will sighs and wipes his eyes, squeezes Emma’s hand one more time and then lets go. 

“How do you mean?” Emma curls herself back against Killian’s side, and he shouldn’t be so happy to feel her warmth again, but he is.

“With everything. WIth you, and the Rulers, and the opening of the Levels everyone’s already talking about, and the dismantling of the Golden Circle, and the dust runners and gangs and all the other people who were profiting off of the Levels being closed. Because I think it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.”

Emma nods again, and then turns to kiss Killian, just a soft, quiet brushing of lips.

“I know it will,” she says, and then looks at him with that look,  _ that look _ , that says,  _ ThisIsOurLifeToLive _ , that says,  _ WeAreTheOnlyPeopleThatMatter _ , that says,  _ ILoveYouSoMuch _ .

“I know it will,” she repeats. “But you’ll have to figure it out without us.”

  
  
  
  
  



	16. EPILOGUE

  
  


The sun shines into the large window above the ugly, supremely comfortable couch where Emma sits, tucked into the corner, holding a book.

A real book.

Killian is stretched out with his head in her lap, snoring softly while her fingers play in his hair.

He makes a small noise and turns his head, squishes his nose into her belly, and then his breathing evens out again.

The door opens and a brunette enters, softening her steps the moment her eyes fall on Killian sleeping, and she smiles. It’s the same smile Emma saw in dozens of pictures back in an abandoned apartment on L3, waiting for Killian, an unconscious Cora handcuffed to a radiator.

It was Belle’s apartment in which she had been standing, homesick and afraid, and it is Belle who now walks smiling towards her, a paper bag in her hand.

Turns out Belle runs a large part of the Farms.

Runs it more efficiently than ever, now that Will has taken it upon himself to help upgrade the entire operation, something which has absolutely nothing to do with the brunette standing before her.

At all.

“Here you go.” Belle’s voice is a whisper as she hands Emma the bag. “Chamomile and peppermint and a few other things. This should help with the morning sickness.”

“I hope so.” Emma does not enjoy being nauseated, but she really does not enjoy being grumpy. And it turns out nausea makes her grumpy, and she  _ really  _ hates that, especially since Killian is being so damn nice about everything, she can hardly stand it.

The moment the door closes behind Belle, Emma swats Killian’s shoulder.

“Don’t even try to pretend you’re asleep.”

He starts to laugh even as he opens his eyes. 

And then he doesn’t say anything else, just looks at her.

Looks at her with that open, happy expression that tells her more than any words ever could just how much he loves her.

She can see the blue sky outside her window, she can see Elsa and Liam by the barn teaching their son how to walk, and she can hear voices from the fields and the other farm houses.

She can smell the bread baking in Dorothy and Ruby’s outdoor ovens all the way over here, and she knows that when Killian is finally ready to get up from his nap, they will go to their small town square, as they call it, and he will get to sample Granny’s latest coffee bean roasting experiment. The coffee is not quite there yet, but they have time.

They have all the time in the world.

They have fields to plant and livestock to tend to and Emma once again has children to teach.

Killian sits up, rubs her belly with his good hand.

And then he gives her a whole different look. “What time did Robin say he was coming?”

Emma checks her watch. “Not for another hour.” She looks up at Killian. “Do you think one of these days we’ll get him to stay?”

Killian laughs. “He’s the Commander of all Law Enforcement. I don’t think the Farms are his place.”

Then he turns somber. “Do you think one day you’ll be tempted to take up your parents’ offer? Go back?”

Emma smiles and leans forward to kiss him. One of these days Killian will trust that she is not going anywhere, ever, unless they go together.

One of these days he’ll stop being afraid of losing her.

But this is not that day, and so she kisses him, long and hard and  _ possessive _ .

“Never,” she says, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

And then there is that look again.

“An hour, you say?” His voice turns low, his vowels stretch like molasses, and that look, oh damn. He is sex on a stick.

She has trouble breathing.

“I did say that.” Her voice is gravel and dust, and he picks her up in one smooth motion, and carries her down the hallway and into the bedroom, and then puts her down on the mattress, panting in anticipation, his eyes nearly black.

“Come here, Mrs Jones,” he says. “I have an idea how we can spend that hour.”

“Well I was going to knit---” Her breathless voice is cut off as his lips come down on hers with force and desire, and he pushes her back, blankets her body, and by all the wretched, abdicated gods of the past----

this 

this

_ this  _ is where she belongs.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All you lovely, wonderful, amazing people reading this story -- we made it.  
i love you all.


End file.
